THE    AMATEUR 


CHARLES    G.    NORRIS 


THE  AMATEUR 


BY 

CHARLES  G.  NORRIS 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.   DORAN   COMPANY 


• 


Copyright,  1916, 
BY  GEOEQE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


TO   MY  MOTHER 

Whose  courage,  keen  humor,  rare  wisdom  and  high  ideals 

have  always  been  an  inspiration  to  at 

least  one  amateur 


513403 


PART   ONE 


PART    ONE 

CHAPTER  I 


AT  Buffalo  Carey  Williams  abandoned  the  luxury  of 
the  Pullman  sleeping-car  for  the  cheerless  com 
fort  of  a  day  coach.  The  routeing  of  his  passes  changed 
from  the  Erie  to  the  Lackawanna  Railroad  at  this  point 
and  there  were  no  sleepers  attached  to  the  train  over 
the  latter  road.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  afford  a  seat  in 
the  chair  cars.  Two  meals  in  the  diner  remained  to  be 
paid  for, — provided  he  gave  up  lunch  again.  He  wanted 
to  arrive  in  New  York  with  the  seal  of  the  envelope 
that  contained  the  two  hundred  dollars  unbroken. 

"Ten  dollars  will  take  care  of  the  grub  and  tips  and 
I'll  land  in  New  York  with  your  greenbacks  untouched," 
he  had  declared  confidently  to  Joe  before  he  had  left 
home. 

His  mother  and  Joe  Downer  had  come  down  to  see 
him  off.  Beneath  the  arching  glass  roof  of  the  great 
station,  he  had  sauntered  up  and  down  between  them, 
his  arms  hooked  in  theirs,  while  late  arrivals,  who  were 
to  be  his  fellow  passengers,  had  hurried  past  the  barred 
grating  of  the  gate,  carrying  grips  and  overcoats,  their 
tickets  in  their  hands,  porters  following  at  their  heels 
with  the  heavier  luggage. 


10  THE  AMATEUR 

The  trad^.  that '.was:  to 'carry  him  a  thousand  miles 
away,  /Jiad  ,to. wered  jmpre'ssiyely  beside  them.  It  had 
appeared-*  to  ;Csipe^'FikeSaiTie  gigantic  caterpillar,  poten 
tially  terrific,  a  thing  of  mystery  and  alarm.  Far  out 
beyond  the  span  of  the  great  roof  of  the  station,  glisten 
ing  sombrely  in  the  sun,  he  had  seen  the  black  steaming 
machine,  at  the  head  of  the  long  string  of  coaches,  in 
whose  bowels  lay  the  power  that  was  to  whirl  him  across 
the  intervening  mountains  and  great  stretches  of  prairie. 
The  doors  of  the  baggage  cars  had  stood  hungrily  open ; 
men  had  attacked  the  great  piles  of  trunks  at  furious 
speed;  Pullman  porters  beside  their  rubber-topped  steps 
at  the  vestibule  entrances  to  the  sleeping  cars,  had  ex 
amined  tickets  thrust  nervously  in  their  faces ;  conductors, 
brakemen,  telegraph  messengers  and  newsboys  had 
passed  them  running ;  there  had  prevailed  a  tense,  pulsing 
note  of  haste  and  purpose. 

Carey  had  felt  the  thrill  of  it.  It  had  been  incongru 
ous  and  out  of  keeping  with  the  bustle  about  them  to 
idly  walk  up  and  down  between  his  mother  and  Joe. 
They  all  had  caught  the  excitement  of  the  departure  and 
talked  among  themselves  at  random. 

"I'll  start  with  an  even  two  hundred,"  Carey  had  re 
iterated  to  Joe.  "I'll  not  touch  a  penny  of  it,  till  I  reach 
New  York." 

Joe  had  nodded  slowly  in  his  clumsy  fashion.  He 
had  accepted  Carey's  declaration  gravely,  as  he  did  what 
ever  the  boy  asserted. 

"But  no  drinking,  Carey,"  his  mother  had  said  anx 
iously.  "You've  promised  me,  you  know.  Remember 
all  I've  said,  my  boy.  Tippling  and  'something  to  steady 
your  nerves'!  Oh,  Carey,  you  will  remember!  Be  a 
good  boy  always.  And  you'll  write  regularly!  And  if 
you  get  into  trouble  you'll  wire,  won't  you,  Carey  ?" 


THE  AMATEUR  11 


"Oh,  don't  worry  about  me,  Mother!  You  won't 
need  to  bother,"  he  had  said  with  swaggering  assurance. 
"I'll  make  good.  I  may  find  out  I  can't  draw, — that  I 
can't  make  illustrations,  but  I'll  get  along.  There's  al 
ways  a  job  cleaning  the  streets.  Just  wait  and  see;  I'll 
be  sending  Joe  twenty  on  account  inside  of  six  months !" 

"Aw,  you  mustn't  let  that  worry  you.  I  don't  need  it, 
you  know,  Carey.  Take  your  time  about  it ;  I  don't  care 
if  it's  a  couple  of  years.  And  you  understand  where  to 
turn  if  you  need  more !" 

Carey  had  been  aware  that  as  Joe  had  said  this  he  had 
been  gazing  at  him  with  the  humble  dog-like  expression 
that  Carey  had  found  so  irritating  during  the  past  few 
months.  He  had  been  thinking  how  glad  he  was  go 
ing  to  feel  away  from  them  all,  how  free  he  would  be, 
when  the  hurried  pace  of  bustle  and  preparation  about 
them  abruptly  increased  to  a  final  spurt.  There  had  been 
a  swift  moment  when  he  had  gripped  his  mother  tightly 
in  his  arms  and  had  felt  her  wet  cheek  against  his,  when 
he  had  wrung  Joe's  hand  in  a  grasp  that  made  his  fingers 
tingle,  and  when  he  had  turned  an  instant  later  to  wave 
to  them  from  the  vestibule  of  the  Pullman.  Then  slowly, 
almost  imperceptibly,  the  great  caterpillar  had  begun  to 
move. 

That  was  two  days  ago.  In  forty-eight  hours  a  subtle 
change  had  already  begun  to  take  place  within  him.  He 
felt  his  point-of-view  shifting,  shifting.  His  complete 
assurance  was  shaken;  no  longer  was  it  glad,  confident 
morning  with  him.  He  wondered  a  little  that  he  had 
been  irritated  by  his  mother  and  by  Joe, — Joe  who  was 
so  steadfast,  so  patient,  so  devoted.  He  was  too  old,  he 
told  himself,  to  be  homesick,  and  if  these  softened 
thoughts  of  his  mother  and  Joe  were  symptoms  of  that 
feeling,  he  determined  not  to  let  himself  think  about 


12  THE  AMATEUR 


them.  Resolutely  he  turned  to  the  window  of  the  car 
and  stared  out  at  the  revolving  landscape. 

It  was  the  thirty-first  of  May.  As  the  train  wound 
along  through  the  rolling  country,  Carey  could  see 
spring,  in  the  full  glory  of  its  maturity,  had  turned 
the  whole  surface  of  the  earth  into  a  patch-work  of 
verdant  tones.  The  last  pages  of  "The  Letters  of  a 
Self-Made  Merchant  to  his  Son" — four  copies  of  the 
book  had  been  parting  gifts  from  well-wishing  friends 
at  home — no  longer  held  any  fascination  for  the  boy. 
This,  that  he  finally  gazed  upon,  was  the  East,  the  land 
of  his  hopes  and  dreams.  It  was  all  so  different  from 
what  he  had  been  used  to  at  home.  Most  of  all — it  was 
the  greenness  of  things  that  drew  his  admiration.  He 
was  accustomed  to  grass  and  trees,  beautifully  kept  lawns 
and  orchards,  but  nothing  ever  so  fresh,  so  violently 
green  as  this  colour  through  the  car  window.  Every 
characteristic  of  the  country  that  meant  for  him  "the 
East"  gladdened  his  heart:  the  nearness  of  the  cities  to 
each  other,  the  rambling  stone  walls,  the  farm  houses, 
even  those  with  roofs  made  hideous  by  advertisements, — 
above  all,  the  trees.  Never  had  he  seen  so  many  trees 
so  close  together.  He  was  always  to  carry  with  him  the 
memory  of  the  rolling,  billowy,  green  tree  tops  below  the 
elevation  of  the  railroad  track,  that  stretched  away  on 
either  side,  a  velvety  carpet  to  the  horizon's  edge. 
Woods!  That  was  it.  There  were  forests  out  West, 
thick  masses  of  underbrush,  or  what  he  would  have  de 
scribed  as  timber  land.  But  he  realised  that  he  had 
never  before  seen  real  woods. 

A  town's  name  upon  a  station  platform  brought  sud 
denly  to  him  the  pleasant  realisation  that  the  state  line 
had  been  passed  and  that  the  train  was  speeding  through 
Pennsylvania.  Pennsylvania !  That  was  something  like ! 


THE  AMATEUR  13 


Somehow  the  thought  that  at  last  he  was  in  the  Quaker 
State  meant  more  to  him  than  when  he  had  changed  cars 
in  Buffalo  that  morning.  He  supposed  he  was  on  New 
York  soil  then,  but  one  never  associated  Buffalo  and 
New  York.  Pennsylvania'  Penn's  Woods!  No  won 
der  they  called  it  that. 

Carey  was  not  aware  that  it  was  Sunday  until,  toward 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  the  train  reached  Delaware 
Water  Gap.  Then  that  fact,  and  that  the  preceding  day 
had  been  Decoration  Day — two  holidays  in  succession — 
was  borne  in  upon  him  by  the  crowds  of  happy,  tired 
people  who  climbed  upon  his  train  and  filled  it  to  over 
flowing.  Somehow,  with  their  advent,  his  elation  and 
high  spirits  left  him.  The  last  pleasant  sensation  was  a 
glimpse  of  a  stretch  of  blue  water,  canoes  and  tiny  sail 
boats,  and  a  crowd  of  laughing  girls  and  boys  of  about 
his  own  age,  in  duck  and  flannels,  who  waved  farewells 
to  departing  friends  from  the  station  platform,  as  the 
train  left  the  Water  Gap  behind. 

A  baby,  with  sticky  face  and  hands,  leaned  from  the 
arms  of  its  fat  and  unheeding  mother,  who  had  installed 
herself  and  her  many  bundles  into  the  seat  directly  be 
hind  Carey,  seized  his  straw  hat  and  flung  it  with  a 
gurgling  crow  into  the  aisle.  Two  girls  on  the  other 
side  of  the  car  tittered,  and  Carey,  recovering  his  hat 
with  as  much  dignity  as  he  could  across  the  lap  of  an 
old  gentleman  who  shared  his  seat,  experienced  his  first 
real  pang  of  loneliness  and  homesickness. 

He  was  an  alien.  The  holiday-makers  about  him,  hi 
lariously  noisy,  were  not  of  the  world  he  knew.  They 
were  different,  of  another  character.  He  edged  towards 
the  window  and  tried  to  make  himself  as  unobtrusive 
and  inconspicuous  as  he  could.  But  his  interest  in  the 
racing  country  was  gone.  No  longer  did  it  seem  so 


14  THE  AMATEUR 


green,  so  fresh,  so  virginal.     Clouds  out  of  the  east  be 
gan  to  bank.     Soon  the  sun  disappeared. 

About  six  o'clock  he  scrambled  out  of  his  seat  and 
worked  his  way  back  through  the  crowded,  swaying  day- 
coaches,  towards  the  diner.  He  had  to  wait  in  the  vesti 
bule  for  half  an  hour,  as  the  preference  for  seats  was 
invariably  given  to  the  passengers  occupying  the  chair 
cars.  Eventually  the  dining-car  conductor  beckoned  him 
to  a  vacant  place  at  one  of  the  tables,  and  he  ate  his 
meagre  supper  of  ham  and  eggs  and  coffee  with  an  em 
barrassed  sense  that  his  frugality  was  generally  observed. 
He  hesitated  between  apple  pie  for  himself  or  a  tip  for 
the  waiter  and  finally  weakly  decided  on  the  latter.  For 
lornly,  hungrily,  he  made  his  way  back  to  his  own  car. 

Some  two  hours  later,  lugging  his  heavy  suitcase,  he 
followed  the  black  stream  of  people  that  hurried  along 
the  station  platform.  Upon  leaving  the  friendly  car  that 
had  kept  him  company  all  day,  the  sense  of  his  loneliness 
and  depression  became  complete.  No  one  cast  a  look 
at  him;  not  one  of  those  flashing  smiles  that  marked 
the  meeting  of  friendly  eyes  through  the  station  grating 
were  for  him.  Everyone  else  had  some  destination  eag 
erly  to  be  sought  and  reached.  It  did  not  matter  where 
he  spent  the  night.  If  he  should  be  found  dead  some 
where,  no  one — not  a  single  person  of  all  these  that 
pressed  about  him,  nor  in  all  that  great,  mysterious,  gi 
gantic  metropolis  across  the  river — could  tell  who  Carey 
Williams  was,  or  would  care. 

An  electric  sign  above  his  head  directed  him  to  the 
Christopher  Street  ferry.  The  "baggage  delivered"  man 
who  had  passed  through  the  train,  and  to  whom  Carey 
had  surrendered  the  check  for  his  trunk,  had  explained 
in  a  friendly,  interested  sort  of  a  way  just  how  the  boy 
was  to  reach  the  hotel  he  mentioned.  Carey  recalled 


THE  AMATEUR  15 


with  comfort  the  pleasant  smile  and  nod,  and,  as  if  to 
assure  himself  again  of  one  fellow-being's  well  wishes, 
he  drew  the  slip  of  paper  the  man  had  given  him  from 
his  pocket  and  reread  for  the  twentieth  time  the  three 
lines  of  scrawled  writing:  "Christopher  St.  Ferry — 8th 
Street  cross  town — Church  with  cross."  The  last  was  to 
identify  the  hotel,  which  had  some  vague  connection  in 
Carey's  mind  with  a  church  of  the  same  name.  A  friend 
of  his  mother  had  once  stopped  there  and  recommended  it 
as  "elegant  and  inexpensive." 

An  iron  gate  in  front  of  him  shut  up  suddenly  like  a 
pair  of  huge  lazy-tongs,  and  the  crowd  behind  him  briskly 
surged  forward,  carrying  him  with  it.  He  presently 
found  himself  on  the  front,  blunt  end  of  the  ferry  boat, 
close  to  the  rail,  and  there,  just  beyond  a  few  hundred 
yards  of  water,  in  one  great  sweep — <up  and  down — as 
far  as  the  darkness  would  let  one  see — crouching,  menac 
ing,  mysterious,  enchanting — bewilderingly  entangled — 
lay  New  York. 

Carey  got  the  thrill  of  it.  It  reached  out  and  gripped 
him  and  engulfed  him  and  swept  him  along  with  it. 
In  an  instant — in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye — the  marvel 
lous  fascination  that  drew  millions  of  souls  within  its 
compelling  force,  to  make  it  what  it  was,  added  Carey  to 
their  number. 

The  struggle  was  there,  the  bitter  combat,  the  grim 
fight  without  quarter.  He  sensed  the  daily  sacrifice  of 
countless  lives,  the  relentless  crushing  of  men's  souls 
and  bodies.  A  monster  it  might  be — but  one  worth  con 
quering.  Now  was  the  time  at  hand  for  the  great  effort ; 
now  was  the  time  for  girding  up  one's  loins!  He 
thought  of  Goliath  and  David.  Did  he  have  a  pebble  in 
his  bag  and  the  skill  to  hurl  it? 

It  had  all  seemed  a  fine  thing  to  attempt,  back  home. 


16  THE  AMATEUR 


He  had  held  forth  at  length  to  Joe  and  to  his  mother 
as  to  what  he  should  do  when  he  reached  New  York. 
But  it  was  different  now.  He  possessed  a  letter  of  in 
troduction  to  one  man  in  that  great  city.  That  and  his 
ability  and  his  constancy  were  all  the  weapons  he  had  at 
hand  wherewith  to  meet  the  enemy. 

"By  God/'  he  said  between  his  teeth,  his  hands  shut 
tight  upon  the  boat's  rail;  'Til  not  be  a  quitter.  They 
sha'n't  know  if  I  fail!" 

Presently,  on  either  side  of  him,  the  black  piles  of 
the  slip  rose  up  out  of  the  darkness  and  the  ferry  boat, 
bumping  and  scraping  its  sides,  nosed  its  way  into  its 
dock. 

The  street  car  was  crowded.  Carey  struggled  on  to 
the  back  platform  and  set  down  his  bulky  suitcase  as 
much  out  of  the  way  as  possible,  but  evidently  he  failed 
to  do  so  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  conductor.  As  more 
passengers  forced  their  way  into  the  car,  the  man  turned 
to  him  angrily: 

"Is  that  yours?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  take  it  out  of  there!" 

Carey  stumbled  forward,  groping  for  the  handle  of  the 
suitcase.  The  bell  rang,  the  car  lurched.  He  tripped 
over  some  one's  foot,  but  managed  to  shove  the  offending 
luggage  further  into  the  corner. 

This  was  his  welcome!  These  were  the  first  words 
addressed  to  him!  He  straightened  himself  with  diffi 
culty,  his  hat  awry,  tears  of  hot  mortification  and  utter 
forlornness  welling  up  into  his  eyes.  He  winked  them 
back  savagely  and  gazed  out  into  the  street  with  its  squat, 
dingy  houses,  their  opened  doorways  aflood  with  light, 
people  sitting  upon  their  steps,  the  pavement  swarming 
with  children. 


THE  AMATEUR  17 


In  a  moment  he  had  control  of  himself  and,  when  the 
conductor  turned  to  him  for  his  fare,  he  stared  fiercely 
at  him  as  he  handed  him  his  nickel.  The  malignity  of 
his  gaze  was  unnoticed,  but  Carey  nevertheless  felt  that 
the  words  of  stern  rebuke  that  he  formulated  in  his 
mind  had  been  spoken,  and  the  conductor  put  in  his 
place. 

He  found  the  courage  presently  to  ask  a  thin,  elderly 
person  with  a  scraggy  beard,  who  had  wedged  in  next 
to  him,  how  soon  the  car  would  reach  the  street  where 
he  knew  he  must  get  off.  The  man,  noticing  him  for  the 
first  time,  eyed  him  curiously,  aware  at  once  that  he  was  a 
stranger  in  the  city.  He  nodded  his  grey  head  at  him 
several  times  emphatically,  indicating  that  he  understood, 
and  presently,  after  the  car  had  trundled  past  several 
crossings  and  Carey  had  about  made  up  his  mind  that 
his  question  had  been  forgotten,  the  man  grunted  and, 
as  the  car  came  to  a  standstill,  gave  Carey's  arm  a  claw- 
like  clutch  and,  pointing  the  direction  with  a  bony  finger, 
shoved  him  energetically  in  the  back. 

Carey  extricated  his  suitcase  with  difficulty  and  in 
another  moment  found  himself  on  the  street  corner,  still 
with  a  miserable  feeling  of  being  forsaken,  as  the  crowded 
car  went  on  bumping  and  jangling  down  the  street. 

But  his  loneliness  left  him  a  moment  later  when  his 
eyes  fell  upon  a  well-known  landmark  just  two  short 
blocks  away.  It  was  almost  like  meeting  an  unexpected 
friend.  With  a  sudden  return  of  interest,  he  peered  up 
at  the  street  names  on  the  lamp-post.  Fifth  Avenue! 
This  was  it!  He  was  on  Fifth  Avenue!  One  of  the 
great  thoroughfares  of  the  world!  And  what  a  noble, 
majestic  street  it  was,  with  its  rows  of  lights  alternately 
placed  on  either  side  of  the  street,  converging  gradually 


i8  THE  AMATEUR 


in  parallel  lines,  melting  into  a  distant  haze  of  mysterious, 
pale  glory! 

And  that  was  the  Washington  Arch !  He  had  seen  many 
photographs  and  pictures  of  it.  One  of  his  most  suc 
cessful  posters  back  home  had  been  made  from  a  photo 
graph  of  it.  Beyond  there  must  be  Washington  Square. 
A  confused  murmur  of  sound  came  to  him  from  that 
direction.  As  he  picked  up  his  suitcase  and  turned  toward 
it,  it  increased  in  volume  until  presently  he  became  aware 
that  it  arose  from  the  shrill  cries  of  many  children  at  play. 
The  Square  was  teeming  with  them,  roller-skating,  shout 
ing,  screaming.  A  mad  ecstasy,  a  wild  abandon  seemed 
to  possess  them. 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock,  and  the  night  was  very 
warm.  The  trees  were  heavy  with  their  new  foliage. 
On  the  benches  sat  the  children's  elders,  Italians  for  the 
most  part,  foreigners  almost  entirely.  The  mingled  jar 
gon  of  their  voices  raised  in  altercation  made  a  distinct 
minor  note  in  all  the  hubbub  about  them. 

Then,  on  a  sudden,  through  a  break  in  the  nearest  trees, 
Carey  saw  the  flaming  cross  surmounting  the  church  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Square.  Threading  his  way  among 
the  dodging  children,  he  crossed  over  to  it,  and  in 
another  moment  entered  the  building  next  door,  which 
was  his  hotel. 

His  dollar-a-day  room  was  little  more  than  a  box.  The 
one  window  faced  upon  an  air-well  and  a  blank  wall.  In 
the  centre  of  a  white,  linen  cloth,  arranged  diagonally 
upon  a  spiral-legged  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  was 
a  thick  red  Bible.  A  cheap  bureau  flanked  the  bed,  and  on 
the  other  side  stood  a  wash  stand  with  basin  and  ewer  and 
slop-jar.  A  couple  of  red  upholstered  chairs  with  some 
what  ragged  fringe  and  sagging  seats  hugged  the  wall  op 
posite  the  bed.  Above  these  in  gilt  frames  of  ornate  scroll 


THE  AMATEUR  19 


work,  hung  two  photograveurs  which  at  some  time  had 
been  irreparably  damaged  by  dampness.  The  frames  were 
tarnished  and  the  heavy  paper  which  supported  the  pic 
tures  had  commenced  to  buckle;  long,  curving  furrows 
ran  across  them  like  arrested  ripples  of  a  pond.  One  of 
these  pictures  represented  a  girl  in  a  riding  habit,  her 
crop  tucked  beneath  her  arm,  feeding  an  apple  to  her 
horse;  it  was  entitled  "Thoroughbreds."  The  other 
showed  the  shrinking  forms  of  a  pair  of  fair-haired  lads 
in  doublet  and  hose  and  bore  the  legend  in  flowing  script : 
"The  Princes  in  the  Tower."  The  room  was  unfriendly, 
comfortless  and  cheerless.  It  reflected  the  entire  atmos 
phere  of  the  hotel,  which,  from  the  groups  of  elderly 
ladies  gathered  in  the  main  hall  downstairs,  to  the  doors 
of  the  creeping  elevator  which  swung  outward,  impressed 
Carey  more  as  a  large  boarding  house. 

It  was  too  early  to  go  to  bed,  although  he  was  tired. 
He  wanted  a  bath,  but  he  had  no  idea  where  the  bath 
room  was,  and  he  disliked  the  fuss  of  ringing  for  a  boy 
and  soap  and  towels.  It  would  have  embarrassed  him ;  he 
decided  to  wait  until  he  felt  more  at  home.  Partially 
unpacking  his  suitcase,  he  got  out  a  pad  of  paper  and 
his  fountain  pen,  and  began  a  long  letter  to  his  mother. 

As  he  wrote,  the  sense  of  his  own  friendlessness  and 
loneliness  returned  to  him.  His  room  was  dreary  and 
depressing.  The  elevator,  across  the  corridor,  began  its 
slow  ascent  with  a  muffled  whine  that  gradually  mounted 
the  octave,  abruptly  ceasing  when  the  car  came  to  a 
standstill.  From  the  air-well  rose  the  smell  of  boiling 
clothes  and  shrill  voices  of  servants  below.  But,  ever 
persistent,  dominating  all  other  noises,  prevailed  the 
distant  murmur  from  the  Square,  punctuated  occasionally 
by  some  child's  sharp  scream. 


20  THE  AMATEUR 


At  ten  minutes  to  twelve,  Carey  woke  suddenly  to  find 
his  head  lying  upon  the  sheets  of  his  unfinished  letter, 
his  fountain  pen  still  gripped  between  his  fingers.  He 
undressed  hurriedly,  struggling  against  his  drowsiness, 
turned  off  the  electric  light,  and  crawled  into  bed.  The 
light  from  the  room  directly  above  his  own,  thrown 
against  the  side  of  the  air-well  opposite  his  window,  was 
reflected  again  on  the  wall  beside  his  bed,  quavering  and 
ghostly.  The  elevator  in  the  hotel  recommenced  its 
whine.  It  stopped  at  his  floor,  and  some  people  passed 
down  the  corridor,  laughing.  They  paused  almost  beside 
his  room.  There  was  an  interchange  of  "good-nights," 
and  a  final  "Hope  you  sleep  well."  A  door  shut;  a 
receding  murmur  of  footsteps  and  voices.  Then  abruptly 
a  knob  rattled, — some  one  stepped  out  into  the  hall. 

"Mrs.  Striker!  Here's  your  music  .  .  .  satisfactory 
.  .  .  his  enunciation  .  .  ." 

A  man  answered : 

"Oh,  thank  you.  That's  the  fourth  time  .  .  .  Well, 
you're  very  kind  .  .  .  good-night !" 

Carey  thought  of  New  York,  of  his  strange  surround 
ings,  of  the  place  where  he  had  hidden  his  money,  and  fell 
asleep. 


CHAPTER  II 


CAREY  was  in  his  twenty-fourth  year  when  he  came 
to  New  York.  He  appeared  a  year  or  so  younger 
on  account  of  the  fairness  of  his  hair  and  the  clear  fresh 
ness  of  his  skin.  He  had  the  Teutonic  colouring,  although 
no  one  could  have  mistaken  his  Americanism.  His  bright 
yellow  hair,  which  he  always  wore  close-cropped,  had  a 
tendency  to  curl  and  cling  to  his  head  in  a  series  of  tiny 
waves.  His  eyes,  of  a  somewhat  sombre  blue,  were  well 
placed  on  either  side  of  a  straight  nose.  Beneath  the 
eyebrows,  which  were  long  and  ended  in  an  upward  tilt, 
the  flesh  formed  a  firm,  round  cushion  like  the  ball  of  a 
thumb  beneath  the  skin.  This  had  the  effect  of  making 
his  face  appear  heavy  and  unresponsive,  and  would  have 
been  a  serious  handicap  had  it  not  been  for  the  ingratiat 
ing  quality  of  his  smile.  His  mouth  was  large  and  sensi 
tive,  and,  when  he  smiled,  it  was  like  the  grin  of  a  school 
boy,  both  appealing  and  full  of  charm.  Two  sharply 
indicated  parentheses  in  either  cheek  were  the  result 
of  this  ready  expression  of  good  humour  and  amusement. 
The  most  noticeable  qualities  of  his  face  were  his  promi 
nent  cheek-bones,  like  those  of  a  young  Indian,  and  his 
high  colour  which  varied  rarely.  He  was  of  medium 
height,  with  rather  a  narrow  chest,  and  weighed  a  little 
over  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds. 

21 


22  THE  AMATEUR 


He  was  born  in  a  western  city  that  boasted  a  quarter  of 
a  million  inhabitants.  His  parents  had  moved  there  a 
few  years  before  his  birth,  as  his  father's  health  de 
manded  a  mild  climate.  There  was  a  considerable  dis 
parity  between  his  parents'  ages.  In  after  years  he  was 
often  to  wonder  what  strange  attraction  had  drawn 
them  together.  His  father  was  a  man  of  affairs,  a  man 
of  the  world,  a  musician,  a  connoisseur  of  art.  More 
over,  he  was  rich.  Carey's  home,  for  the  early  part  of 
his  life,  had  been  one  of  luxury. 

His  mother,  on  the  other  hand,  twenty  years  her 
husband's  junior,  was  shy  and  retiring,  extremely  do 
mestic  and  deeply  religious.  Almost  from  his  birth, 
Carey's  mother  was  haunted  by  the  fear  that  her  son 
was  doomed  to  fill  a  drunkard's  grave.  There  was  not 
the  slightest  ground  for  her  apprehension.  While  Virgil 
Williams  drank  an  occasional  glass  of  wine,  or  even  some 
thing  stronger  when  the  occasion  arose,  Carey  had  never 
seen  his  father  when  the  slightest  suspicion  could  have 
been  aroused  as  to  his  sobriety.  There  was  no  accounting 
for  his  mother's  dread  of  her  son's  acquiring  the  taste 
for  liquor.  It  formed  the  theme  of  the  greater  part  of 
her  morning  and  nightly  prayers.  At  times,  particularly 
on  Sunday  afternoons,  she  would  entice  Carey  into  a 
quiet  corner  of  the  home,  cut  off,  by  carefully  planned 
manoeuvring,  every  means  of  escape,  and  then  plead  with 
him  to  withstand  the  evils  of  the  Demon  Rum.  Im 
pressed  with  the  danger  of  drawing  too  tight  a  rein,  she 
occasionally  permitted  the  appearance  of  beer  upon  the 
table  on  the  excuse  that  a  Welsh  rarebit  afforded ;  and  a 
decanter,  half-filled  with  grocer's  claret  upon  the  side 
board  in  the  dining  room,  bore  evidence,  so  she  told  her 
self,  to  her  open-mindedness  on  the  subject.  But  Carey 
invariably  noticed  her  apprehensive  eyes  upon  him  as  he 


THE  AMATEUR  23 


drank  his  glass  of  beer,  and  once,  coming  suddenly  upon 
her  at  the  sideboard,  he  found  her  holding  the  claret  de 
canter  to  the  light,  comparing  the  height  of  the  liquor 
with  the  impression  left  by  some  previous  inspection. 

There  was  little  ground  of  mutual  interest  upon  which 
his  parents  could  meet.  His  mother's  taste  in  literature 
ran  to  such  books  as  Rose  Mather,  Happy-go-lucky, 
The  Woman  in  White,  Won  by  Waiting,  The  Heir  of 
Reddyffe  and  the  novels  of  E.  P.  Roe.  She  thought 
"those  pretty  tunes  from  Trovatore  and  Traviata 
very  pleasing."  The  Wedding  March  from  Lohengrin 
— the  last  syllable  of  which  she  pronounced  to  rhyme 
with  Rhine — 'and  Schubert's  "Serenade"  were  among  her 
favourites  in  music.  Curiously,  while  she,  by  compari 
son,  cared  little  for  either  books  or  music,  she  found  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure  in  pictures.  The  consummate 
masterpiece  of  the  world's  art  for  her  was  the  painting 
by  Sir  Edwin  Landseer  entitled  A  Distinguished  Mem 
ber  of  the  Humane  Society,  representing  a  great  New 
foundland  dog  lying  upon  a  stone  pier,  his  forepaws  rest 
ing  complacently  upon  the  curbing,  his  head  erect,  his 
eyes  looking  placidly  out  of  the  picture.  A  fine  steel 
engraving  of  this  work  of  art  hung  above  the  coal  grate 
in  her  room,  and  Carey  often  found  his  mother,  with 
arms  resting  upon  the  mantel  beneath,  gazing  absorbedly 
at  it,  unheedful  of  his  presence,  lost  in  revery. 

"Was  there  ever  so  noble  a  look  upon  a  man's  face, 
Carey?"  Mrs.  Williams  would  ask  him.  "There  must 
be  a  place  in  Heaven  for  such  dogs  as  that." 

Mr.  Williams  regarded  his  wife's  ideas  on  art,  music 
and  literature  with  amused  tolerance.  Carey  was  not 
aware  of  it  at  the  time,  but  years  afterwards  he  came 
to  realise  that  his  father,  appreciating  the  gulf  between 
his  own  mind  and  his  wife's,  had  long  since  ceased  to 


24  THE  AMATEUR 


attempt  to  bridge  it.  Virgil  Williams  was  a  man  of  cul 
ture,  a  university  graduate,  a  man  who  had  travelled 
extensively.  As  he  grew  on  in  years,  travelling  became 
his  greatest  source  of  amusement.  He  took  little  interest 
in  Carey.  At  a  very  early  age,  the  boy  could  remember 
that  once  his  father  had  swung  him  to  his  shoulder  and 
marched  about  the  library  table  singing : 

"I'm  Captain  Jinks  of  the  Horse  Marines, 
I  feed  my  horse  on  corn  and  beans." 

But  this  was  one  of  the  very  few  occasions  when  his 
father  had  shown  him  affection.  Of  thrashings  and  pun 
ishments  there  had  been  many,  but,  in  justice  to  Virgil 
Williams,  let  it  be  said  that  these  had  not  been  severe. 
His  son  irritated  him.  He  was  noisy  and  obstreperous ; 
he  rattled  the  silverware  at  the  table;  he  talked  con 
tinually.  The  father  suffered  from  dyspepsia  and  often 
came  home  with  a  severe  headache.  Frequently  he  did 
not  come  home  until  after  Carey  had  gone  to  bed.  He 
dined  at  his  club  or  with  friends.  As  Carey  grew  older, 
his  father  came  home  to  dinner  less  and  less  often.  But, 
once  or  twice  a  week,  Williams  Senior,  seized  with  one 
of  his  terrible  headaches,  drove  up  to  his  door  in  a  coupe 
and  was  helped  upstairs  and  into  bed  by  the  hackman  and 
the  butler.  Then  it  was  that  Mrs.  Williams  made  up 
to  her  husband  for  the  many  times  she  exasperated  and 
wearied  him.  Kneeling  by  the  great  walnut  bed  in  the 
darkened  guest-room  beside  the  gaunt  figure  stretched  out 
immovable  beneath  the  sheet,  she  wrung  out  the  ice-cold 
cloths  from  the  huge  silver-plated  pitcher  in  which  the 
ice  rattled  and  clinked,  and  placed  the  dripping,  cold  com 
presses  one  after  another  upon  his  burning  forehead  at 
minute  intervals. 


THE  AMATEUR  25 


At  such  -times,  Carey  knew  the  safest  place  for  him 
was  outside  the  house.  No  noise  of  any  kind,  not  even 
a  footfall  or  spoken  word,  must  disturb  the  sick  man. 

Once  the  boy  had  come  home  late,  and  had  entered 
the  house  not  knowing  his  father  had  returned  before 
him,  carried  up  to  bed,  blind  with  pain.  Carey  romped 
through  the  hall,  flung  his  school  books  into  the  hall 
closet,  banged  the  door,  and  came  up  the  stairs  two  at  a 
time.  He  never  forgot  the  towering  figure,  clad  in  the 
white,  scant  nightgown,  that  met  him  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs.  The  hollow  sockets  beneath  the  contracted 
brows  in  which  his  father's  eyes  leaped  as  tiny  flames, 
the  drawn  cheeks,  the  dripping  grey  hair,  the  clawlike 
hands,  one  caught  at  the  opening  of  the  nightshirt,  the 
other  clutching  the  ice  cloth,  and  his  mother's  shrinking 
figure  cowering  behind,  left  an  ineradicable  impression 
upon  his  mind.  The  utter  terror  that  possessed  him  at  the 
moment  forever  left  its  mark  upon  him.  Thereafter,  if 
suddenly  he  came  upon  his  father,  or  was  surprised  by 
him  at  some  unexpected  meeting,  he  could  not  control 
the  start  or  the  succeeding  shudder  that  seized  him.  His 
father  saw  that  his  son  shrank  from  him  at  such  times, 
and  it  annoyed  and  angered  him. 

And  yet  Carey  was  not  without  a  feeling  of  affection 
for  his  father.  Mr.  Williams  provided  for  the  boy 
generously.  He  was  sent  to  the  best  schools;  he  had  a 
discriminating  music  teacher;  even  a  physical  instructor 
was  engaged  for  a  time.  It  was  as  if  the  man,  realising 
his  lack  of  interest  in  his  son,  sought  to  make  up  to  him 
in  such  material  advantages. 

Before  he  moved  to  the  West,  Virgil  Williams  had 
amassed  a  considerable  fortune.  He  had  the  instincts  of 
the  financier.  If  business  or  profession  he  had,  it  was 
that  of  a  promoter.  His  reputation  in  this  respect  was 


26  THE  AMATEUR 


considerable.  The  majority  of  his  investments  justified 
his  faith  in  them.  When  he  gambled,  he  did  so  knowingly 
and  conservatively.  All  his  dealings  had  been  with 
inconsiderable  amounts,  and  yet  the  aggregate  of  his 
profits  made  a  respectable  total.  He  married  when  he 
was  forty,  and  felt  that  he  could  retire  at  forty-three.  It 
was  with  this  in  mind  that  he  had  gone  West.  But  the 
man  failed  to  understand  his  own  nature.  He  found 
that  he  could  not  settle  down  to  a  life  of  leisure.  He 
began  to  dabble  in  a  half -interested  way  in  local  real 
estate.  Then  Carey  was  born,  and  the  father  took  a 
six  months'  trip  to  Europe,  leaving  the  baby  and  his 
young  wife  at  home. 

It  must  have  been  upon  his  return  that  Virgil  Williams 
began  to  realise  that  he  had  outgrown  his  wife.  A  pas 
sionate  music-lover  himself,  and  a  pianist  of  no  small 
attainment,  he  failed  utterly  to  awake  in  his  wife  any 
interest  in  Bach,  Beethoven  or  the  music  dramas  of 
Wagner.  During  the  winter  following  his  European 
trip,  he  made  a  flying  visit  to  New  York  for  the  concerts 
and  opera.  Thereafter,  this  visit  became  an  annual 
affair,  which  stretched  from  weeks  into  months.  He 
never  took  Carey's  mother  with  him. 

In  addition  to  his  awakened  interest  in  music,  Virgil 
Williams  brought  home  with  him  from  Europe  some 
very  fine  Piranese  etchings  and  an  excellent  copy  of 
Greuze's  Cruche  Cassee,  together  with  many  excep 
tional  photographs  of  the  old  masters'  work.  But  his 
wife  had  no  appreciation  for  them,  and  most  of  the 
etchings  he  gave  to  his  friends.  The  Cruche  Cassee  he 
presented  to  his  club.  On  his  subsequent  trips  to  Europe 
he  never  again  brought  back  anything  to  beautify  his 
home. 

On  more  than  one  occasion,  before  his  departure,  he 


THE  AMATEUR  27 


had  urged  his  wife  to  accompany  him.  But  Mrs.  Wil 
liams  felt  his  dissatisfaction  with  her  and  the  boy,  and 
pleaded  her  own  health  or  Carey's  schooling  as  the  excuse 
to  remain  at  home. 

When  Carey  was  twelve  years  old,  his  father  went 
on  a  trip  around  the  world.  He  was  gone  for  over  a 
year,  and  during  this  time  the  boy  was  aware  of  a  subtle 
change  that  came  over  his  mother.  He  knew,  in  some 
vague  way,  that  she  was  unhappy.  Occasionally  he  found 
her  in  tears,  reading  over  the  letters  that  irregularly 
arrived  from  his  father.  But  she  never  took  her  son 
into  her  confidence.  The  boy,  however,  felt  she  was  de 
pressed  with  a  growing  anxiety,  and  he  was  troubled. 

Suddenly,  without  further  warning,  the  catastrophe 
he  instinctively  felt  to  be  impending  overtook  them. 

A  lawyer,  with  full  power-of -attorney,  arrived  from 
New  York,  with  instructions  from  Virgil  Williams  to 
sell  all  the  real  estate  holdings  that  he  owned  in  their 
city,  including  the  homestead.  Mrs.  Williams,  frightened 
and  beside  herself  with  the  conflicting  advice  of  many 
friends,  engaged  a  local  firm  of  attorneys.  An  injunc 
tion  was  procured  in  time  to  prevent  the  sale,  but  no 
explanation  was  forthcoming  from  Virgil  Williams,  who 
had  returned  to  America  and  was  living  in  New  York. 

Events  succeeded  one  another  rapidly — too  rapidly  for 
Carey  to  follow  with  any  adequate  comprehension  of 
their  meaning.  His  father  brought  suit  for  divorce  on  the 
absurd  ground  of  desertion.  His  mother  hid  herself  in  the 
house  of  a  friend  and  so  frustrated  the  efforts  of  the 
process-servers.  After  much  misgiving,  and  driven  to 
the  necessity  of  taking  some  action  by  the  cessation  of 
all  her  income,  Mrs.  Williams  brought  a  counter  suit 
for  divorce,  which  her  husband  allowed  to  go  by  default. 
Provision  for  the  wife  and  son  was  made  by  deeding  all 


28  THE  AMATEUR 


the  property  in  the  western  city  to  Mrs.  Williams  and 
making  a  cash  settlement  of  ten  thousand  dollars. 

Two  months  later,  his  mother  told  Carey  that  the  day 
after  the  divorce  was  granted  his  father  had  remarried. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Carey  began  to  develop  a 
great  desire  to  become  an  artist.  His  mother's  income 
having  been  cut  in  half,  the  necessity  of  his  doing  some 
thing  to  earn  a  living  became  immediately  apparent.  The 
home  was  sold,  and  his  mother  bought  a  smaller  house 
in  which  they  began  their  life  under  the  new  conditions. 
But  these  first  years  were  not  happy  for  either  of  them. 
Mrs.  Williams  brooded  over  her  husband's  alienation 
and  grew  bitter.  Carey  accepted  the  situation  with 
youth's  indifference.  His  father  had  been  at  home  so 
little,  it  did  not  matter  whether  he  stayed  away  alto 
gether.  He  could  not  sympathise  with  his  mother's 
resentment  of  the  wrong  that  had  been  done  herself  and 
son  or  with  her  offended  pride.  He  could  not  share  her 
opinion  of  his  father's  selfishness.  She  knew  her  hus 
band's  weaknesses  and  the  more  she  reflected  upon  the 
ease  with  which  he  had  escaped  from  a  situation  that  was 
distasteful  to  him,  the  more  indignant  and  incensed  she 
became.  In  the  distressed  state  of  her  mind,  her  early 
fear  of  her  son  becoming  a  drunkard  returned  to  harass 
and  terrify  her.  She  nagged  Carey  accordingly  and  he, 
insensible  to  the  bitterness  and  sorrow  that  lay  heavy 
at  her  heart,  grew  sullen  and  ill-tempered. 

Their  income,  which  at  first  had  been  ample  for  their 
needs,  soon  began  to  decrease  owing  to  bad  investments 
and  mismanagement.  At  the  end  of  his  second  year  at 
the  high  school,  Carey  finally  prevailed  upon  his  mother 
to  let  him  take  a  course  in  the  Art  School  affiliated  with 
the  neighbouring  university. 


THE  AMATEUR  29 


He  soon  began  to  justify  the  wisdom  of  this  step. 
At  the  end  of  a  year,  he  was  one  of  the  most  promising 
students  in  the  school,  and  was  singled  out  to  form  one 
of  a  special  class  of  ten  or  so  to  take  individual  instruc 
tion  in  colour  work  under  Klaus  Gustav  Eschen,  a  land 
scape  painter  of  considerable  reputation  and  quite  the 
biggest  man  in  art  matters  in  their  community.  Pro 
fessor  Eschen  took  a  genuine  liking  to  Carey  and,  perhaps 
because  of  the  boy's  sunny  disposition,  perhaps  because 
of  his  earnestness  and  ability,  laboured  with  him  more 
than  he  did  with  the  others. 

It  was  on  the  summer  sketching  trip  that  followed  the 
close  of  the  first  year's  work  that  Carey  made  a  friend 
of  Joe  Downer.  The  sketching  class  was  composed  of 
about  eighteen  of  the  Art  School's  students  who  could 
afford  the  time  and  the  expense.  Of  their  number,  eleven 
were  women,  and  these,  for  the  most  part,  were  what 
Carey  described  as  elderly.  Certainly,  the  youngest  were 
two  sisters  who,  generously  speaking,  must  have  been 
nearing  the  thirties.  Of  the  men,  three  were  married  and 
two  were  deaf  and  dumb,  which  threw  the  remaining  pair 
into  one  another's  constant  society.  Perhaps  this  was 
the  only  way  they  could  ever  have  become  friends,  for 
Joe  Downer  was  seven  years  Carey's  senior,  a  silent,  gen 
tle  sort  of  person,  conscientious  to  an  irritating  degree, 
slow,  shy,  and  sensitive  as  a  child.  They  returned  from 
this  trip  sworn  friends,  and  Joe  thereafter  became  Carey's 
blind  and  abject  slave.  He  conceived  a  dumb  and  un 
swerving  affection  for  the  boy  that  was  almost  sublime 
in  its  unselfish  devotion.  Carey  soon  accepted  it  as  a 
matter  of  course,  and  imposed  upon  Joe's  kindness  at 
times,  often  hurting  his  friend's  sensitive  feelings  cruelly. 
But  Carey  was  not  aware  of  this.  Joe  did  not  know  how 
to  reproach  him,  even  if  he  had  wished  to  do  so. 


36  THE  AMATEUR 


It  was  Joe's  praise  and  admiration  for  Carey's  work 
that  led  the  boy  to  drop  out  of  the  Art  School  and  go 
to  work,  free-lancing.  Joe  believed  firmly  that  Carey's 
future  was  to  be  that  of  a  great  artist.  A  sketch,  an  idle 
note  for  a  composition,  a  dog's  outline  upon  a  scrap  of 
paper,  discarded  by  Carey  or  tossed  into  a  waste-paper 
basket,  would  be  stealthily  recovered  and  reverently 
pasted  in  a  scrap-book  kept  for  that  purpose.  Old  Pro 
fessor  Eschen  pleaded  in  vain  with  Carey  to  finish  the 
course.  Every  one  of  his  instructors,  even  his  mother, 
added  their  arguments.  Carey  was  obdurate.  He  told 
them  he  didn't  want  to  be  a  painter  or  an  "artist" ;  it  was 
his  ambition  to  become  an  illustrator.  He  pored  over 
the  magazines,  knew  the  names  of  most  of  the  illustra 
tors,  and  referred  to  them  glibly.  Three  huge  portfolios, 
crammed  with  the  pictures  he  admired,  bore  witness  to 
his  interest  in  this  line  of  his  profession.  He  made  a 
frieze  about  his  room  with  the  posters  by  Edward  Dan- 
gerfield  and  Perry  Maxwell  and  other  artists  that  lead 
ing  monthly  magazines  had  issued  within  the  past  few 
years,  and  he  would  go  almost  any  length  to  add  to  his 
collection.  His  proudest  possessions  were  an  original  pen 
and  ink  sketch  by  Castle  Jerome,  one  of  the  most  prom 
inent  illustrators  of  the  day,  which  had  appeared  in  a 
comic  weekly,  and  another  of  President  Roosevelt  by  a 
famous  cartoonist. 

The  determining  factor  which  led  Carey  finally  to  take 
the  step  he  had  so  long  discussed  with  Joe  Downer  was 
the  winning  of  a  contest  for  the  best  poster  advertising 
the  State  Fair.  The  prize  was  two  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars ;  but  it  was  not  so  much  the  money  that  mattered 
as  the  prestige  his  success  brought  him.  His  photograph 
was  published  in  the  three  local  newspapers,  and  he  was 
at  once  elected  to  the  Pen  and  Brush  Club,  an  exclusive 


THE  AMATEUR  31 


organisation  composed  of  the  best  writers  and  artists 
in  the  city.  He  became  its  youngest  member. 

Joe  Downer  had  a  studio  in  which  he  lived  as  well  as 
worked,  and  he  suggested  they  should  share  this.  Carey 
accepted  his  offer,  although  he  continued  to  live  at  home 
with  his  mother.  Downer's  income  consisted  of  fifty 
dollars  a  month,  paid  to  him  from  his  father's  insurance, 
and  whatever  else  he  could  earn  from  work  with  local 
advertisers.  It  was  meagre  enough ;  but  Joe  was  thrifty, 
and  managed  to  get  along  comfortably. 

Carey  was  nearly  nineteen  when  he  launched  out  for 
himself.  For  the  first  three  months  he  worked  with  a 
passionate  devotion,  determined  to  show  his  mother  and 
his  instructors  at  the  Art  School  that  he  had  not  been 
over-confident.  In  that  time  he  finished  three  magazine 
covers  and  drew  a  dozen  pen-and-ink  sketches,  illustrating 
his  own  jokes,  which  he  sent  East.  He  competed  in  a 
poster  contest  for  a  cash  prize  offered  by  a  cereal  manu 
facturer,  and  submitted  a  water-colour  sketch  for  the 
cover  of  a  booklet  to  the  advertising  manager  of  the  great 
railroad  which  had  its  general  offices  in  his  own  city.  At 
the  end  of  three  months,  his  covers  and  sketches  were  all 
returned,  and  his  poster  in  the  cereal  contest  was  lost 
in  the  office  of  the  manufacturer.  He  never  obtained 
the  slightest  satisfaction  for  it.  But  the  advertising 
manager  of  the  railroad  company  wrote  him  to  come  and 
see  him,  and  offered  him  twenty-five  dollars  a  week  to 
illustrate  the  booklets  and  folders  issued  by  the  Passenger 
Department  of  the  railroad. 

The  General  Passenger  Agent  had  noticed  Carey's 
poster  for  the  State  Fair,  and  had  spoken  about  it  to 
the  Advertising  Manager  as  the  kind  of  thing  he  liked, 
pointing  it  out  with  his  stick  one  day  when  he  and  the 
Advertising  Manager  were  going  to  lunch  together.  It 


32  THE  AMATEUR 


was  to  that  slight  incident  Carey  owed  the  offer.  He 
accepted  it  gladly  and  went  proudly  home  to  tell  Joe  and 
his  mother  about  it.  A  hundred  dollars  a  month  seemed 
a  great  deal  of  money  to  him ;  he  had  never  had  so  much 
to  spend  before,  and  he  felt  that  life  was  easy  and  the 
world  a  simple  thing  to  bring  humbly  to  his  feet. 

But  he  paid  dearly  for  this  mistake.  In  accepting  the 
offer  from  the  railroad,  he  forged  about  his  hands  and 
feet  shackles  that  soon  began  to  gall  and  chafe  him. 
Within  a  year  they  seemed  to  be  unendurable;  but  it 
took  four  years  of  unhappiness,  discouragement  and  self- 
disgust  to  shake  them  off. 

He  never  liked  to  look  back  upon  this  period  of  his 
life.  His  work  with  the  railroad  lost  its  zest  within 
two  months  after  he  had  undertaken  it.  It  required 
little  artistic  ability,  little  work  and  little  thought. 
It  soon  became  a  source  of  easy  income — and 
nothing  more.  He  had  no  definite  hours,  and  would  drop 
in  at  the  offices  of  the  railroad  only  when  he  was  sum 
moned.  The  result  was  that  he  never  rose  from  his  bed 
until  after  nine  in  the  morning,  and  most  of  his  time, 
when  he  was  not  working  in  Joe's  studio,  was  spent  at 
the  Pen  and  Brush  Club  playing  poker,  drinking,  and 
associating  with  other  idlers  like  himself. 

It  was  Joe's  devotion  that  kept  Carey  free  from  con 
tamination  during  this  period.  There  were  times  when 
there  would  be  serious  talk  between  the  two,  and  Carey 
would  not  go  near  the  Club  for  a  week ;  but  he  was  very 
young,  extremely  popular,  and  the  attraction  was  strong. 

The  worst  result  to  Carey  at  this  time  was  the  dwin 
dling  of  his  ambition.  It  became  dormant.  He  no  longer 
wanted  to  become  an  illustrator.  The  desire  for  creation 
left  him.  He  was  in  a  rut,  and  he  didn't  care  enough  to 
get  out  of  it.  In  a  vague,  indefinite  fashion,  he  longed 


THE  AMATEUR  33 


to  break  away  and  begin  to  paint  and  draw  again  as  he 
had  when  he  was  at  the  Art  School — but  he  did  not  know 
how  to  go  about  it.  He  took  refuge  in  blaming  the  lack 
of  opportunity  in  their  western  city.  No  one  really  knew 
anything  about  art  there — the  illustrator's  art — his  kind 
of  art.  New  York  was  the  place!  There  brains  and 
ability  were  recognised !  He  wanted  to  go  to  New  York 
and,  at  the  end  of  his  second  year  with  the  railroad,  he 
announced  to  every  one  that  he  was  going.  He  even  got 
so  far  as  to  set  a  date;  but  it  was  postponed,  and  again 
postponed,  and  another  year  slipped  by  before  he  knew  it. 
Carey  would  often  sit  back  from  his  drawing  board — 
on  which  there  might  be  a  sketch  of  a  Pullman  porter 
deferentially  aiding  a  passenger  with  his  luggage — to 
find  Joe  Downer  gazing  at  him,  troubled  and  anxious,  his 
grey  eyes  full  of  affection  and  concern.  Joe  never  re 
proached  him  or  upbraided  him.  Carey  told  himself  he 
would  have  minded  it  much  less  if  he  had.  The  incident 
that  brought  Carey  to  his  senses  was  much  more  effective 
than  anything  Joe  could  have  said  or  done. 

On  a  certain  New  Year's  Eve,  after  Carey  had  been 
with  the  railroad  for  nearly  four  years,  he  had  the  dis 
agreeable  experience  of  being  arrested.  He  unquestion 
ably  had  drunk  much  more  champagne  than  he  should, 
and  that  complicated  the  matter.  He  had  been  dining 
with  a  number  of  the  younger  members  of  the  Pen  and 
Brush  Club  at  a  popular  restaurant,  where  they  had  en 
gaged  a  table  for  some  time  in  advance.  Their  party  had 
been  noisy  and  conspicuous,  and  the  manager  of  the 
place  had  twice  requested  them  to  be  less  obstreperous. 
Carey's  offence  was  not  serious.  Wandering  among  the 
crowded  tables,  speaking  to  one  group  of  friends  after 
another,  he  stopped  before  a  couple — an  old  man  and  his 
daughter — bowed  and  smiled  and,  picking  up  the  lady's 


34  THE  AMATEUR 


champagne  glass,  drained  it  and  broke  the  stem  of  it 
in  two. 

The  old  gentleman  failed  to  understand  the  tribute. 
He  promptly  knocked  Carey  down.  A  disorderly  scene 
followed.  Carey's  club  mates  rushed  to  his  assistance, 
and  a  waiter  who  attempted  to  interfere  was  knocked  to 
the  floor  in  turn.  A  mad,  free-for-all  fight  ensued  be 
tween  waiters  and  clubmen,  tables  were  overturned, 
glass  and  chinaware  broken,  mirrors  smashed.  Abruptly 
the  police  appeared,  swinging  their  clubs,  and  the  fight 
was  over.  Carey,  dragged  out  from  beneath  the  general 
debris  by  a  gigantic  policeman,  was  hustled  with  the  rest 
of  his  friends  through  a  fast-gathering  and  staring  crowd 
into  the  waiting  patrol  wagon  and  locked  up  in  the  station 
house  on  the  charge  of  "drunken  and  disorderly  con 
duct."  Two  hours  later,  Joe  arrived  and  bailed  him  out. 
He  did  not  appear  in  court  when  the  case  was  called,  pur 
posely  forfeiting  his  bail — and  the  incident  was  seemingly 
closed. 

But  the  two  hours  in  the  police  pen  opened  Carey's 
eyes.  His  remorse  was  so  acute  that  Joe's  heart  ached 
for  him.  Fortunately,  Mrs.  Williams  never  heard  about 
the  affair,  and  it  got  to  the  ears  of  very  few  of  Carey's 
friends.  But,  to  the  boy,  this  made  little  difference. 

His  first  act  toward  regeneration  was  his  prompt  res 
ignation  from  the  Pen  and  Brush  Club;  his  second,  leav 
ing  his  mother's  house  for  a  time  and  going  to  live  with 
Joe.  For  the  four  months  following,  he  worked  hard 
and  determinedly.  He  was  seriously  in  debt,  but  Joe 
taught  him  how  to  save  and,  by  the  end  of  that  time, 
he  had  paid  all  he  owed.  Without  waiting  for  further 
developments,  he  borrowed  two  hundred  dollars  from 
Joe,  and  decided  to  take  the  plunge  and  try  his  luck  in 
New  York.  Four  months  had  worn  out  his  patience  and 


THE  AMATEUR  35 


endurance.  He  had  lived  the  life  of  self-denial  and  self- 
restraint  as  long  as  he  was  able,  and  it  was  more  his 
distrust  of  himself,  his  fear  of  returning  to  his  old  habits 
and  associates,  than  the  desire  to  satisfy  his  ambition, 
that  finally  drove  him  to  accept  Joe's  proffered  loan  and 
make  the  break.  His  mother  could  not  understand  his 
wish  to  get  away,  and  reproached  him  for  what  she 
described  as  "want  of  heart."  She  felt  he  was  too  young 
to  withstand  the  temptations  to  vice  in  New  York,  and 
threw  the  responsibility  of  his  going  on  Joe. 

"It's  your  doing,"  she  said  to  him  with  bitterness.  "If 
he  comes  home  a  confirmed  drunkard,  I'll  have  you  to 
thank  for  it." 

Professor  Eschen  gave  him  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
a  celebrated  portrait  painter  in  New  York,  and  the  mem 
bers  of  the  Pen  and  Brush  Club  made  his  departure  the 
occasion  for  a  farewell  dinner.  The  Advertising  Man 
ager  of  the  railroad  secured  him  an  employe's  pass  to 
New  York,  and,  thus  equipped,  Carey  left  home. 


CHAPTER  III 


CAREY  presented  his  letter  of  introduction  to  John 
Seymore  Jarvis  on  the  second  day  after  his  arrival 
in  New  York.  Monday  he  had  spent  on  a  Broadway 
surface  car,  riding  from  the  Battery  almost  to  Harlem 
and  back.  He  walked  Forty-second  Street,  and  Thirty- 
fourth  and  Twenty-third,  and  had  his  dinner  in  a  Childs 
restaurant  In  the  evening  he  had  bought  a  seat  in  the 
gallery  for  "The  Prince  of  Pilsen,"  a  comic  opera  that 
had  been  running  all  winter,  and  reached  his  hotel  at 
midnight,  utterly  fagged  out.  His  most  thrilling  experi 
ence  of  the  day  had  been  when,  across  one  of  the  unex 
pected  tree-shaded  squares,  he  had  caught  sight  of  the 
gold  sign  of  the  Occident  Company.  Some  day  he'd 
sell  them  a  cover  design  or  a  picture  for  their  magazine, 
and  some  day  they'd  send  for  him  and  ask  him  to  illustrate 
a  serial!  He  determined  to  make  his  first  rounds  of 
the  magazine  offices  and  show  the  samples  of  his  work 
that  he  had  brought  with  him,  just  as  soon  as  he  was  set 
tled.  He  was  on  fire  to  begin. 

John  Seymore  Jarvis'  studio  was  located  on  the  corner 
of  Sixth  Avenue  and  Fifty-seventh  Street.  Carey  had 
no  difficulty  in  finding  it.  It  was  one  of  a  great  many 
ateliers  that  composed  a  large  brick  corner  building.  The 
side  of  this  building  facing  Fifty-seventh  Street  was 

36 


THE  AMATEUR  37 


broken  by  a  number  of  tall,  wide  windows  of  prismed 
glass,  which  threw  the  precious  north  light  into  the 
farthest  corners  of  the  studios.  Inside,  Carey  was  re 
minded  of  his  high  school  at  home,  with  its  uncarpeted 
floors  and  wide  halls.  But  the  place  had  a  curious  atmos 
phere.  There  was  no  room  here  for  shams  or  dilettantes. 
It  was  a  place  for  work — for  achievement.  However 
unattractive  and  barren  the  halls  might  be,  Carey  realised 
that,  on  the  other  side  of  the  closed  doors  that  flanked 
the  echoing  corridors,  there  were  many  luxurious  and 
beautiful  rooms.  An  open  door  into  one  of  these  suites 
gave  him  a  glimpse  of  tapestries,  carved  oaken  furniture 
and  tall  candles.  A  capped  and  aproned  maid  was  gath 
ering  up  the  mail  that  had  been  thrust  behind  the  door 
knob  and  had  fallen  to  the  floor.  On  many  of  the  doors 
were  the  names  of  those  who  lived  in  the  studio  apart 
ments.  Carey  thought  some  of  these  seemed  familiar 
and,  just  as  he  had  placed  his  finger  on  the  electric  push 
button  of  Apartment  51,  on  the  door  of  which  appeared 
the  name  of  John  Seymore  Jarvis,  he  caught  sight  of 
another  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall  that  brought  a 
glad  smile  of  recognition  to  his  face.  Gregory  Shilling 
— one  of  the  best-known  of  the  magazine  illustrators! 
It  was  like  meeting  an  old  friend.  Here,  undoubtedly, 
had  been  painted  many  of  those  pictures  whose  reproduc 
tions  he  had  cut  from  East  and  West  and  Stapleton's  and 
pasted  in  his  scrap-book  at  home. 

He  was  standing,  still  fascinated  by  the  well-known 
name,  when  the  door  before  him  was  jerked  open  by  a 
grey-bearded  man  clad  in  a  painter's  smock,  a  huge  palette 
and  a  bunch  of  brushes  in  his  left  hand. 

"Well?"  he  demanded,  impatiently.     "What  is  it?" 
For  a  moment  Carey  was  too  embarrassed  to  utter  a 
word.    His  hand  fumbled  in  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat 


38  THE  AMATEUR 


and  trembled  as  he  picked  out  Professor  Eschen's  letter 
of  introduction  from  the  little  bundle  of  envelopes  and 
papers.  He  handed  this  to  the  man  and  reached  for  his 
card-case,  trying  to  focus  his  mind  on  doing  the  correct 
thing;  he  felt  confused  and  his  fingers  were  all  thumbs. 
The  painter,  however,  was  evidently  too  preoccupied  to 
notice  the  boy's  embarrassment. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said  again,  reading  the  address  on 
the  envelope.  His  hand  being  occupied  with  palette 
and  brushes,  he  made  no  attempt  to  extract  the  letter. 

"It's  a  letter  from  Professor  Eschen,"  Carey  said.  He 
had  found  his  calling  card  by  this  time,  but  he  saw  no 
way  of  handing  it  to  Mr.  Jarvis. 

"Eschen — who,  Klaus  Eschen?  What's  he  want?" 
The  painter  stared  at  the  envelope,  turning  it  over  to  ex 
amine  the  back,  in  the  obvious  hope  that  upon  its  reverse 
side  he  might  obtain  enlightenment. 

Carey  thought  with  sullen  indignation  afterwards  that 
what  he  should  have  said  in  reply  to  this  was:  "Why 
don't  you  read  it  and  see!"  Instead,  his  voice  failed 
him  utterly  for  the  moment,  and  he  shifted  his  feet  and 
crumpled  the  card  in  his  hand.  He  felt  that  he  was 
behaving  like  a  school-boy  and  that  Jarvis  was  hardly 
to  be  blamed  for  his  rudeness. 

"It's  a  letter  introducing  me,"  he  finally  blurted  out. 

"Oh — ah !"  Jarvis  examined  the  envelope  again 

and  then  looked,  as  if  for  the  first  time,  at  Carey. 

"Well — can  you  come  again?  I  have  a  sitter  just  at 
present;  I  can't  see  you  now.  You're  a  friend  of 
Eschen's?  A  pupil?  Well — come  and  see  me  to-morrow. 
There's  a  lady  posing."  With  a  backward  movement  of 
his  head  he  indicated  his  studio,  and  Carey,  through  the 
chink  of  the  door,  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  dias,  a  woman's 
figure,  a  heavy  brocaded  gown  and  plumed  hat. 


THE  AMATEUR  39 


"I'm  sorry,"  the  painter  continued;  "but  come  to 
morrow.  I'll  be  glad  to  see  you." 

He  shut  the  door  in  Carey's  face. 

Carey  stood  staring  blankly  at  its  flat  surface  for  some 
moments  while  he  strove  to  control  the  wave  of  anger 
that  rose  up  violently  within  him.  He  wanted  to  fling 
himself  against  it  and  beat  it  down.  Tears  welled  up  into 
his  eyes,  tears  of  outraged  pride  and  bitter  resentment; 
he  threw  his  head  far  back  upon  his  shoulders,  gazing 
upward  at  the  bare  ceiling  above  him,  to  keep  them  from 
falling.  Slowly  he  walked  down  to  the  end  of  the  vacant, 
echoing  hall  and  stood  looking  out  of  the  window  for 
some  unseeing  minutes.  Presently,  as  a  sudden  deter 
mination  seized  him,  he  strode  down  the  hall  again  and 
stopped  in  front  of  the  door  opposite  Apartment  51. 
There  was  no  bell,  but  he  used  the  brass  knocker  and 
when  the  door  was  opened,  he  asked  the  servant  if  Mr. 
Shilling  was  in. 

In  another  moment  he  found  himself  in  a  beautiful 
studio  with  a  high  skylight  and  panelled  walls.  There 
were  pictures  everywhere,  framed  and  unframed,  paint 
ings,  sketches,  charcoal  studies,  wash  drawings,  pen  and 
inks.  Portfolios  bulging  to  the  bursting  point  with  more 
drawings  stood  in  corners.  A  lay  figure  in  a  Japanese 
kimono  was  propped  in  a  chair,  an  incongruous  Civil-war 
soldier's  cap  awry  upon  its  head.  Beneath  the  skylight 
were  three  windows  of  leaded  diamond  panes.  One  of 
these  was  open,  casement  fashion,  and  the  breeze  had 
blown  many  loose  papers  from  the  window  seat  upon 
the  floor.  In  front  of  the  windows  were  two  drawing 
boards  on  swivel  standards.  The  top  of  one  of  these 
was  tilted  vertically,  and  in  its  centre  was  thumb-tacked 
a  piece  of  galley  proof  marked  in  its  margin  with  a  heavy 
blue  pencil.  A  dozen  or  so  cigarette  stubs  lay  among  the 


40  THE  AMATEUR 


scattered  papers  on  the  floor,  and  there  was  a  scent  of 
stale  tobacco  smoke  in  the  air. 

Gregory  Shilling  was  a  young  man,  very  much  younger 
than  Carey  had  imagined  possible.  He  was  tall,  clean 
shaven,  square  jawed,  with  a  mop  of  black  hair  across 
his  forehead.  He  wore  a  smoking  jacket  and  his  feet 
were  thrust  into  moccasins.  Carey  did  not  hear  his 
padded  footsteps  and  was  not  aware  that  he  had  entered 
the  room  until  his  warm,  friendly  voice  addressed  him. 

"Mr.  Williams — what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

Carey  turned  about  to  find  him  coming  toward  him, 
holding  the  calling  card  in  his  hand,  a  large  calabash  pipe 
gripped  in  his  firm-set  mouth.  Something  in  the  artist's 
face  gave  the  boy  confidence. 

"I — I  have  been  a  long  admirer  of  your  work,  Mr. 
Shilling,"  he  began  falteringly.  "My  home's  out  West; 
I  only  arrived  in  New  York  two  days  ago.  I've  come 
here  to  break  into  the  illustrator's  game,  if  I  can." 

He  paused,  confused.     Shilling  waited  expectantly. 

"I've  been  following  your  work,"  the  boy  continued, 
"ever  since  you  began  in  East  and  West.  An  old  pro 
fessor  of  mine  at  the  Art  School  gave  me  a  letter  to 
John  Seymore  Jarvis,  and  I  called  here  this  afternoon  to 
present  it,  but — but  Mr.  Jarvis  was  busy;  he  had  a  sit 
ting." 

The  memory  of  his  ungracious  reception  came  back 
to  him,  and  the  blood  rushed  into  his  face.  Abruptly  his 
confidence  left  him.  He  was  overwhelmed  with  the 
sense  of  the  impropriety  of  having  intruded  upon  Gregory 
Shilling.  He  and  Jarvis  must  be  close  friends.  They 
lived  across  the  hall  from  one  another.  What  did  he 
expect  of  Shilling  anyway?  What  was  there  to  be  said? 

Defiantly  he  raised  his  eyes  to  meet  those  of  the  artist. 

"He  shut  the  door  in  my  face,"  he  said,  angrily.     "He 


THE  AMATEUR  41 


took  my  letter  and  told  me  to  come  again,  as  though  I  was 
a  common  pedlar, — a  model,  perhaps,"  he  added  bitterly. 
"He  didn't  ask  me  my  address.  He  was  very  rude  and 
— and  very,  very  unkind."  Carey  turned  to  the  casement 
window  to  hide  the  emotion  he  feared  he  too  plainly 
revealed. 

"Then  I  saw  your  name  on  the  door,"  he  continued, 
"and  I  had  known  of  you  so  long  that  I  felt  as  though 
you  were  a  friend,  and  I  had  the  impulse  to  come  and  tell 
you  about  it  and  ask  you  how  a  fellow  begins.  I  don't 
know  another  living  soul  in  this  whole  damned  city!" 

He  heard  Shilling  gently  rapping  the  ashes  out  of  his 
pipe  and  presently  the  rasp  of  a  match.  Then : 

"How  old  are  you,  Mr.  Williams?" 

"Twenty-three." 

"Had  much  experience?    I  mean — at  drawing?" 

"Four  years  with  a  western  railroad.  I  drew  the 
pictures  for  their  advertisements  for  them." 

"Commercial  stuff— hey?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  want  to  be  an  illustrator  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  how  many  artists  there  are  in  New 
York  City,  according  to  the  last  United  States  census?" 
He  paused  a  moment  to  give  the  statement  emphasis. 
"Twenty-five  thousand." 

Carey  didn't  answer.  An  overwhelming  sense  of  de 
pression  came  upon  him. 

"Suppose  we  sit  down,  Mr.  Williams.  I'd  like  to  tell 
you  a  few  things  that  may  be  of  help  to  you."  He  indi 
cated  an  arm-chair  beside  the  drawing  board,  and  Carey 
sat  down.  Shilling  proceeded  to  wander  about,  drawing 
long  inhalations  from  his  calabash  pipe. 

"Do  you  know  the  work  of  Walter  Madison  Parke?" 


42  THE  AMATEUR 


"Yes,  sir,"  said  Carey,  betraying  in  his  voice  his 
admiration. 

"Well,  Mr.  Williams,  he  was  the  greatest  illustrator 
that  ever  lived.  You  probably  know  that  as  well  as  I. 
No  one  has  ever  equalled  him,  and  no  one  is  likely  to. 
His  death  was  a  great  loss  to  his  profession.  Twelve 
years  ago  I  came  to  New  York,  just  about  as  you  are 
doing  now.  I  had  been  on  a  newspaper  out  in  Indian 
apolis,  and  I  wanted  to  do  something  bigger.  I  came  on 
here  and  got  a  job  on  one  of  the  New  York  evening 
papers.  I  thought  I  was  the  luckiest  man  alive.  At  the 
end  of  a  month  they  fired  me.  A  friend  took  me  up  and 
introduced  me  to  Parke.  I  shall  never  forget  what  he 
told  me,  and  I  pass  it  on  to  you  for  what  it  may  be  worth 
to  you.  He  said  to  me :  'My  dear  boy,  the  illustrator's 
art  is  a  profession.  No  one  can  expect  to  win  success 
in  it  without  long,  hard  work,  just  the  same  as  in  any 
other  profession.  A  boy  who  determines  to  become  a 
physician  or  a  lawyer  thinks  about  it  a  good  many  years 
before  he  commits  himself  to  one  or  the  other  of  them. 
He  thinks  about  his  qualifications,  his  abilities,  more 
particularly  he  thinks  about  whether  he  can  afford  it. 
It  means  four  years  in  a  medical  college,  three  years  in 
Berlin,  and  more  study  in  some  big  surgeon's  office  when 
he  returns  home.  With  the  lawyer  it's  the  same  wray. 
He  knows  that  it  will  take  him  eight  to  ten  years  before 
he  can  possibly  make  a  living  out  of  his  work.  But  your 
artist !  He  makes  a  close  copy  of  one  of  Charles  Hanna 
Simpson's  double-page  spreads  in  Mirth,  and  his 
maiden  aunt  says,  "Mercy,  Harry's  going  to  be  an  artist ! 
He  ought  to  study."  And  the  boy  quits  school  and  takes 
six  months  or  a  year  in  an  Art  League  somewhere,  and 
seven  times  out  of  ten  he  doesn't  finish  the  course;  but 
when  he  starts  in  for  himself  nobody  questions  his  right 


THE  AMATEUR  43 


to  his  title  of  "an  artist."  He's  an  artist  all  right.  He 
can  go  and  solicit  manuscripts  to  illustrate  from  the 
magazines  as  well  as  the  fellow  who's  been  drawing  and 
working  and  slaving  for  ten  years  at  his  work.'  " 

"I'm  trying  to  give  you  the  same  impression,  Mr.  Wil 
liams,"  continued  Shilling,  sitting  down  beside  him,  "that 
Walter  Madison  Parke  gave  me.  He  said,  coming  close 
to  me  like  this  and  putting  his  hand  on  my  shoulder, — 
he  said,  'Shilling — take  my  advice — go  home,  go  home  to 
your  folks,  or,  if  you  will  stay  here  in  New  York,  try 
breaking  cobbles  or  try  to  reform  the  town, — something 
easy !  But,  for  God's  sake,  don't  try  to  become  an  artist.' 

"And  I  did,"  said  Shilling,  rising  to  relight  his  pipe, 
"just  what,  in  all  probability,  you  will  do :  I  stuck  it  out. 
I  refused  the  advice  which  I  am  now  passing  along  to 
you.  But  I  worked.  God  knows  how  hard  or  how  long 
before  I  made  any  sort  of  a  go.  You  won't  quit  on  the 
strength  of  what  I'm  telling  you.  I'm  not  very  old  my 
self,  but  youth  knows  it  all  and  won't  take  advice,  and 
you  probably  think  you're  going  to  be  a  wonder — and 
maybe — perhaps — maybe  you  will  be.  But,  let  me  tell 
you  this  one  thing:  If  you  are  finally  to  make  good, 
you've  got  to  work  and  work  like  hell,  just  as  if  you 
decided  to  be  a  lawyer  or  a  doctor." 

Carey  sat  still,  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  small  brass  bowl  half 
full  of  ashes  and  burnt  ends  of  cigarettes.  He  was  think 
ing  hard;  every  word  of  what  Shilling  said  he  knew  was 
the  truth.  In  a  halting,  unemotional  voice,  he  said,  half 
speaking  to  himself: 

"If  they  all  took  your  advice  and  quit — and — and 
went  home  again,  there  wouldn't  be  any  good  men  left 
in  ten  or  fifteen  years.  There  wouldn't  be  very  many 
of  'em  at  any  rate.  Some  of  the  fellows  who  try  their 
luck  in  New  York  make  good." 


44  THE  AMATEUR 


"Well,  that's  the  answer,"  said  Gregory  Shilling.  "I 
figured  it  out  much  the  same  way  a  dozen  years  ago,  and 
I  suppose  I  can  say  truthfully  that  I'm  one  of  the  men 
that  caught  on.  You  may  be  another/' 

"Would  you — would  you  be  willing  to  look  at  some  of 
my  stuff, — some  of  my  drawings?"  asked  Carey. 

Shilling  smiled  as  he  shook  his  head. 

"No  use,"  he  said  kindly.  "I  know  just  what  they're 
like.  All  beginners'  work's  the  same;  it's  all  rotten. 
Why,  the  stuff  I  showed  around  when  I  first  came  here 
ought  to  have  landed  me  in  jail.  I'm  sure  your  work  will 
seem  amateurish  and  clumsy,  and  I  wouldn't  tell  you  it 
was  if  you  should  show  it  to  me,  for  fear  of  hurting  your 
feelings.  You  want  to  remember  that  what  you  need 
to  get  measured  is  your  determination,  your  courage, 
your  capacity  for  work.  Your  present  ability — whether 
you've  got  it  in  you  to  be  an  artist — nobody  can  tell  you 
that. 

"But  wait.  You  ought  to  be  started  right.  You've 
got  to  travel  the  same  route  as  the  rest  of  us.  You've  got 
to  make  the  rounds  of  the  magazines  and  advertisers' 
agencies.  It  will  seem  useless  and  hopeless  and  ridicu 
lous  to  you  before  you've  done;  but  that's  the  only  road 
I  know  of.  There  is,  however,  a  lot  of  lost  time,  and  a 
word  or  two  may  save  you  six  months  of  wasted  energy. 
Sherman  of  the  Consolidated  Press  Syndicate  is  the  man 
who  will  gladly  give  you  that  necessary  word.  Tell  him 
I  sent  you.  I'll  give  you  a  card." 

He  drew  out  a  tiny  drawer  from  a  quaintly  carved 
Japanese  chest  and  picked  a  card  from  the  box,  and 
scrawled  across  its  face : 

"Introducing  Mr.  Carey  Williams." 

"Sherman's  the  man  you  want  to  see.  He'll  give  you 
all  the  points  you  need.  He's  the  Art  Editor  of  the 


THE  AMATEUR 


Consolidated ;  been  there  from  time  immemorial,  and  he 
knows  all  the  illustrators  in  the  city  and  all  the  ropes. 
He's  a  wonder. 

"Now,  I  hope  I  haven't  discouraged  you,  my  boy," 
continued  Shilling.  "It's  a  hobby  of  mine,  this  business 
of  sending  untrained,  immature  youths  to  New  York  who 
consider  themselves  qualified  to  be  artists.  Why,  they 
don't  even  know  what  life  is, — let  alone  what  art  is.  And 
let  me  say  one  thing  more  to  you,  Mr.  Williams :  to  be  a 
great  artist — whether  a  painter,  a  musician,  writer  or 
sculptor — you've  got  to  know  what  life  is,  before  you  can 
expect  to  depict  it  or  interpret  it." 

Carey  walked  back  to  Washington  Square  and  sat 
on  a  bench  under  the  trees  and  thought  about  himself 
and  his  work  and  the  things  that  Gregory  Shilling  had 
told  him,  until  it  was  late  in  the  evening.  A  continu 
ous  stream  of  people  passed,  children  romped  about  his 
feet,  a  fat  Italian  woman  came  and  sat  beside  him,  gently 
rolling  back  and  forth  a  dilapidated  perambulator,  from 
whose  depths  arose  an  occasional  whimper.  But  Carey 
neither  heard  nor  saw.  He  was  conscious  only  of  the 
fact  that,  had  some  Gregory  Shilling  told  him  these  things 
before  he  left  home,  he  never  would  have  found  the  cour 
age  to  come  away,  but  that  now,  having  taken  the  step, 
there  was  no  turning  back.  He  was  not  afraid  that  he 
could  not  succeed.  He  believed  in  himself.  Never  for 
a  moment  did  he  question  his  ability  to,  some  day,  be  as 
great  as  Shilling  or  Jarvis, — it  was  the  length  of  time, 
the  proportions  of  the  fight,  the  long,  hard  road  that  lay 
before  him,  that  made  him  think.  It  was  not  of  his  work 
or  his  skill  that  he  had  doubts;  it  was  his  own  self,  he, 
Carey  Williams,  about  whom  he  had  the  misgivings. 
Could  he  stick  it  out  ?  Could  he  keep  at  it  long  enough  ? 


46  THE  AMATEUR 


His  mind  went  over  the  same  points  again  and  again, 
round  and  round  in  the  same  circle,  like  a  squirrel  in  a 
wheel. 

Presently  he  was  aware  that  his  head  was  aching,  and 
that  he  had  not  eaten  anything  since  breakfast.  A  police 
man  told  him  where  he  would  find  a  Childs  restaurant; 
but,  when  he  reached  the  place,  it  was  closed.  Sick  with 
the  persistent  pain  in  his  head,  he  turned  into  the  St. 
Denis  Hotel  and  sank  into  one  of  the  comfortable  chairs 
in  the  cafe.  Then,  reckless  of  what  it  would  cost,  he 
ordered  a  sirloin  steak  and  a  pot  of  coffee. 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  immediate  problem  that  confronted  Carey  was 
where  and  how  cheaply  he  could  live.  Of  certain 
facts  he  was,  fortunately,  aware.  One  of  these  was  that  the 
only  existence  possible  for  him  was  in  a  boarding  house. 
He  had  fancied,  before  he  left  home,  that  he  might  get 
a  room  somewhere  and  take  his  meals  in  a  neighbouring 
restaurant.  He  had  imagined  how  such  a  room  would 
look  after  he  had  "fixed  it  up."  In  the  bottom  of  his 
trunk  he  had  brought  the  magazine  posters  he  had  been 
at  such  pains  to  collect,  and  there  was  the  pen-and-ink 
original  from  Mirth,  and  the  cartoon  of  Roosevelt. 
When  he  could  afford  it,  he  was  going  to  have  low  book 
shelves  and  a  window  seat,  with  a  corduroy  cushion,  built 
in  the  room;  and  there  was  to  be  an  open  fireplace,  and 
a  Morris  chair  and  a  student's  lamp  with  a  green  shade. 
But  for  these  things,  he  knew  he  would  have  to  wait, 
and,  for  the  present,  he  must  find  a  boarding  house  where 
he  could  get  a  room,  facing  north — a  room  fair  enough 
in  size  so  that  he  would  not  be  continually  colliding  with 
his  drawing  table, — and  three  nourishing  meals  a  day. 
Eating  here  and  there,  at  irregular  hours,  and  cutting 
down  the  food  to  save  a  nickel  or  a  dime,  he  knew  had 
ruined  stronger  constitutions  than  his.  He  had  Joe 
Downer  to  thank  for  this  wisdom.  Joe  had  been  through 
the  mill  and  had  learned  lessons  which  he  had  impressed 

47 


48  THE  AMATEUR 


upon  Carey  during  their  talks  in  the  weeks  before  the 
boy  had  left  home. 

After  breakfast  at  a  lunch  counter  on  the  morning 
after  his  interview  with  Gregory  Shilling,  Carey  bought 
the  Herald  and  the  Times  and  took  them  back  to  the 
hotel.  Spreading  their  advertising  pages  open  on  one 
of  the  desks  in  the  writing  room,  he  proceeded  to  mark 
with  his  pencil  every  item  that  seemed  to  fit  his  needs 
and  purse  in  the  columns  headed  "Boarders  Wanted." 
He  cut  these  out  with  his  pocket-knife  when  he  had 
finished  reading  all  the  ads.  and,  with  a  dozen  clippings 
before  him,  selected  those  that  looked  most  promising 
and  put  the  balance  in  an  envelope  marked  "Thursday." 
One  thing  he  decided  from  the  outset :  he  would  not  live 
above  Forty-second  Street  or  below  Washington  Square. 
He  knew  carfare  would  be  an  item,  and  he  wanted  also 
to  be  as  near  the  heart  of  the  city  as  possible.  He  con 
gratulated  himself  on  the  rapidity  with  which  he  had 
grasped  the  lay  of  the  city,  the  clearness  with  which  he 
saw  his  individual  needs  and  what  he  must  do  at  once 
towards  meeting  them.  He  couldn't  understand  why 
any  one  should  go  out  as  far  as  Harlem  to  live. 

The  first  address  on  his  list  was  on  the  West  Side  of 
Gramercy  Park.  He  was  enchanted  with  the  quietness  and 
gentility  of  the  locality,  the  greenness  of  the  trees,  the 
brilliant  colouring  of  the  flowers  in  the  carefully  kept 
beds,  the  high  encircling  iron  fence.  He  made  up  his 
mind  to  put  up  with  almost  any  inconvenience  a  board 
ing  house  might  present  for  the  sake  of  living  in  such 
a  neighbourhood;  but  he  was  unprepared  to  make  the 
sacrifices  expected  of  him.  The  one  single  room  vacant 
in  the  boarding  house  was  little  more  than  a  closet  on  the 
top  floor;  it  had  no  windows;  a  small,  square  skylight 


THE  AMATEUR  49 


in  the  slanting  ceiling  formed  the  lid  of  a  square  hollow 
shaft,  the  upper  part  glass,  the  lower  wainscoting,  which 
ran  through  the  centre  of  the  tiny  room  carrying  light 
and  air  to  the  bath  room  on  the  floor  below.  For  such 
accommodations  with  board  fifteen  dollars  a  week  was 
demanded.  Carey  was  indignant ;  he  felt  affronted.  No 
one  with  any  self-respect  could  have  lived  in  such  a  room, 
and  to  ask  fifteen  dollars  for  it  seemed  to  Carey  adding 
insult  to  injury. 

The  next  house  he  visited  was  on  Madison  Avenue. 
There  were  no  single  rooms  vacant  there,  and  he  was 
advised  to  try  across  the  street.  Here  he  was  shown 
a  hall  bedroom  a  little  larger  than  the  closet  on  Gram- 
ercy  Park,  the  one  window  of  which  faced  the  rear 
of  an  office  building.  The  light  was  poor  and  the  rent 
was  again  fifteen  dollars.  Carey  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  could  not  pay  more  than  ten. 

His  next  address  was  on  Irving  Place.  The  house 
was  attractive  and  room-rent  and  table  board  were  only 
twelve  dollars  a  week.  The  hall  room  he  was  shown, 
however,  was  very  small  and  the  light  was  easterly.  He 
made  a  mental  note  that  it  was  a  possibility  and  told  the 
woman  he  would  call  again  in  the  afternoon. 

Certain  facts  were  borne  in  upon  him  as  he  walked 
slowly  down  the  street.  It  was  clear  that  any  house  on 
streets  running  north  and  south  would  give  him  an  east 
or  west  light;  also  it  was  evident  that  boarders  at  the 
beginning  of  summer  were  hard  to  get  and  that  conces 
sions  might  be  made  if  he  asked  for  them.  He  had  been 
told  at  all  of  the  places  he  visited  that  in  two  or  three 
weeks  there  would  be  plenty  of  rooms  vacant,  and 
if  he  would  enquire  again  at  that  time,  he  might  be  better 
suited. 

He  stopped  on  the  corner  and  began  sorting  over  the 


50  THE  AMATEUR 


remaining  clippings  in  the  envelope.  There  was  no  other 
address  in  that  locality,  and,  uncertainly,  Carey  turned 
towards  Union  Square,  half  inclined  to  wait  until  the 
afternoon  before  pursuing  his  quest.  Glancing  down 
toward  Third  Avenue  as  he  crossed  Sixteenth  Street,  he 
was  struck  with  the  brave  and  staunch  loyalty  with  which 
the  prim  little  houses  on  both  sides  of  the  street  seemed 
to  stand  together,  beleaguered  by  gigantic  and  encroach 
ing  office  buildings,  pressing  upon  them  from  every  side. 
Somehow  these  valiant  little  houses,  with  their  bright 
brick  fronts,  suddenly  suggested  to  Carey  that  a  boarder 
might  not  be  unwelcome.  He  might  even  find  a  private 
family  that  would  be  glad  to  take  him  in.  He  slipped 
the  envelope  with  the  clippings  into  his  pocket  and  walked 
briskly  down  the  cross  street. 

The  first  house  that  looked  possible  bore  no  sign,  but, 
in  the  window  of  the  one  adjacent,  there  was  a  little  ob 
long  placard:  "Boarders."  He  was  about  to  climb  its 
steps,  when  an  old  negro,  in  shirt  sleeves  and  with 
a  spotty  apron  tied  about  his  waist,  came  out  in  the  area- 
way  and  began  to  sweep  up  a  litter  of  ashes  that  dirtied 
the  flagging  close  to  the  side  gate.  Carey  glanced  up  at 
the  house.  It  was  three  windows  wide  and,  counting  the 
basement,  four  stories  high.  As  he  stood  gazing  at  its 
noncommittal  fagade,  the  door  opened  and  a  boy  about 
his  own  age,  sleek  and  smartly  dressed,  ran  lightly  down 
the  steps,  and  went  whistling  up  the  street.  There  was 
something  attractive  about  the  way  he  swung  his  shoul 
ders  from  side  to  side  to  suit  his  rapid  gait. 

Carey  turned  to  the  old  negro : 

"Do  you  think  the  family — the  lady  of  the  house,  would 
be  offended  if  I  should  ask  her  to  take  me  as  a  boarder?'* 

The  man  straightened  up,  and  a  look  of  suspicion  came 
into  his  face.  He  gazed  at  Carey,  eyeing  him  over. 


THE  AMATEUR 


"How's  dat,  suh?"  he  said,  as  if  he  hadn't  heard. 
Carey  repeated  his  question. 

Something  still  puzzled  the  other. 

"Dis  is  a  boa'din'  house,  suh!"  he  answered  finally. 
"Was  you  lookin'  fo'  room  an'  boa'd?" 

Carey  nodded. 

"Jes'  please  excuse  me,  suh ;  I'll  go  tell  Mrs.  Fillmore. 
You  jes'  go  right  up  th'  stairs  an'  ring  th'  bell."  He 
disappeared  hurriedly  through  the  iron  grilled  gate  be 
neath  the  steps  and  presently  opened  the  door  for  Carey 
on  the  landing  above. 

"Mrs.  Fillmore  is  not  feelin'  ve'y  well,  suh.  Miss 
Watt  will  see  you.  Jes'  step  right  in  th'  parlour." 

The  room  into  which  Carey  was  shown  was  half  in 
darkness  in  spite  of  the  brilliant  June  sunshine  in  the 
street.  Heavy  hangings  at  the  windows  and  drawn 
shades  kept  out  the  light.  It  was  evident  it  was  seldom 
entered.  From  the  centre  of  a  very  high  ceiling  was  sus 
pended  an  enormous  ornate  chandelier,  twinkling,  even 
in  the  darkened  room,  with  hundreds  of  dangling  glass 
prisms.  Folding  doors  shut  off  the  adjoining  room.  An 
old-fashioned  davenport  was  backed  up  against  these, 
and  on  one  side  stood  a  closed  harmonium,  balanced  op 
posite  by  a  tall  cabinet  whose  shelves  were  covered  with 
ornaments:  shells,  souvenir  boxes,  glass  plates,  china 
figures,  and  vases  of  all  sizes  and  shapes.  Of  the  rest  of 
the  room  Carey  got  a  fleeting  impression  of  marble- 
topped  tables  with  more  vases  and  books  neatly  arranged 
thereon,  heavily  upholstered  chairs  with  squares  of  lace 
pinned  carefully  to  their  backs,  and  numberless  pictures 
in  massive  gold  frames  suspended  from  the  high  picture 
moulding  above  them.  The  thing  that  interested  him 
most  was  the  fact  that  the  door  from  the  hall — a  door 


52  THE  AMATEUR 


unusually  wide  and  unusually  thick — was  made  of  one 
solid  piece  of  mahogany. 

The  opportunity  of  investigating  further  was  cut  short, 
for,  with  much  rustling  of  skirts  and  ponderous  tread, 
Miss  Watt  descended  upon  him.  Miss  Watt  was  an 
exceedingly  large  woman.  She  was  not  fat ;  she  was  big 
and  very  tall;  "rangey"  described  her.  She  was  dressed 
in  white, — a  shirt-waist  and  duck  skirt,  stiff  with  starch, 
like  those  of  a  trained  nurse.  Her  arms  were  folded, 
the  forearm  bare,  the  fingers  of  each  hand  thrust  beneath 
the  tight  sleeve  of  the  other  arm.  In  the  doorway,  the 
light  behind  her,  she  looked  to  Carey  like  an  ogress  in 
Grimm's  Fairy  Tales;  but  her  voice,  when  she  spoke, 
was  pleasant,  though  loud  and  shrill. 

"Did  you  want  to  look  at  some  rooms?  My  sister, 
Mrs.  Fillmore,  isn't  well  to-day.  Could  I  show  you  what 
we  have?  You're  single,  I  presume?" 

Although  he  could  not  distinguish  her  expression,  as 
she  stood  with  her  back  to  the  hall  light,  Carey  knew 
that  she  was  "beaming"  at  him.  Her  voice  was  enough. 
Nothing  could  sound  more  ingratiating. 

"Because,"  continued  Miss  Watt,  "we  only  want  gen 
tlemen.  Ladies  are  too  fussy.  Will  you  stay  through  the 
summer,  or  do  you  want  a  room  just  for  a  few  weeks? 
We  have  a  lovely  room  on  the  top  floor.  I  think  it's  the 
nicest  room  in  the  house,  myself.  .  .  .  Won't  you  go 
right  up  stairs?  ...  I  tell  Lizzie — my  sister,  Mrs.  Fill- 
more — that  if  it  weren't  for  the  stairs,  I'd  rather  have 
that  room  than  any  other.  It's  the  coolest  in  summer. 
Charley — that's  Mrs.  Fillmore' s  son — says  he  is  going 
to  sleep  there  this  summer  on  hot  nights,  if  it  isn't  rented. 
.  .  .  Whew !  these  stairs  do  take  one's  wind ! 

"Now,  this  here,"  Miss  Watt  paused  on  the  first  land 
ing  to  throw  open  a  door,  "is  Mr.  Vernaught's  room. 


THE  AMATEUR  53 


He's  English  and's  crazy  about  old  things — antiques,  you 
know." 

Carey  glanced  in.  The  room  was  spacious,  finely  pro 
portioned.  In  spite  of  the  warmth  of  the  day,  the  embers 
of  a  dying  fire  smoked  in  the  open  grate.  Over  the  foot 
of  a  wide  brass  bed  were  flung  the  covers.  Through  the 
windows  at  the  back,  he  caught  sight  of  green  leaves  and 
brilliant  sunshine. 

"My  sister  has  the  front  room  on  this  floor.  She's 
not  well  to-day.  Please  go  right  on  up,  I  prefer  to  follow, 
I  come  so  slow.  .  .  .  Did  you  say  you  wanted  a  boarding 
place  for  the  summer,  or  just  for  a  little  while?" 

"I'm  an  artist,"  answered  Carey.  "I've  just  come  to 
New  York.  I'd  like  to  find  a  place  to  stay  indefinitely. 
I've  got  to  have  a  room  that  faces  north." 

"Well,  I  guess  we've  got  just  what  you're  looking  for. 
Excuse  me  a  minute.  I'll  see  if  Mr.  Washburn's  gone 
out." 

She  knocked  on  a  door  on  the  second  landing.  Some 
body  shouted,  "Yes?  What  is  it?" 

"Oh,  never  mind,  Mr.  Washburn,  I  thought  maybe  you 
were  out " 

The  door  suddenly  opened  and  a  tall,  thin  man  with  a 
sunken,  hollow  face  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

"What  is  it,  Miss  Watt?" 

"Now,  now,  please  excuse  me,  Mr.  Washburn,  I  didn't 
dream  you  were  in.  I  was  just  showing  this  young 
gentleman  about." 

"Want  to  come  in?"    Washburn  flung  wide  the  door. 

"Oh,  no  thank  you,"  Carey  exclaimed.  "Please  don't 
bother."  He  moved  down  the  hall  after  Miss  Watt. 
She  had  already  begun  to  mount  the  third  flight. 

"Mr.  Durrant  and  Mr.  Lambert  have  the  front  room 
on  that  floor.  I'll  show  you  their  room  when  we  come 


54  THE  AMATEUR 


down.  Miss  Blanchard — a  friend  of  the  family — has  the 
hall  bed-room  next,  facing  the  street."  Her  words  now 
came  in  gasps.  She  was  utterly  winded.  "Just  a  mo 
ment.  ..."  She  waved  Carey  back.  "I — I'll  be  all  right 
in  a  minute.  It's  these  stairs.  .  .  .  I'm  not — not  used  to 
them.  I  don't  come  up  here  .  .  .  once  a  year.  .  .  . 
Now,  here's  your  room." 

She  pushed  back  a  half -opened  door,  and  Carey,  at  a 
glance,  decided  that  it  was  to  be  his  future  home,  pro 
vided  the  rent  was  not  impossible.  It  was  bright 
and  a  good  size.  There  were  two  windows  facing  the 
street ;  the  light  was  excellent.  The  ceiling  was  low,  and 
had  a  tilted  appearance  due  to  some  odd  construction  of 
the  roof  which  he  found  quaint  and  interesting.  There 
was  no  fireplace — but  a  simple  marble  mantel  was  set 
in  one  wall,  and  there  was  a  comfortable-looking  bed 
and  a  wash  stand  with  basin  and  ewer.  There  was  also 
a  Morris  chair,  one  that  might  easily  have  been  taken 
direct  from  Carey's  dreams. 

Miss  Watt,  silenced  through  lack  of  breath,  now  found 
her  voice  again  and  began  to  enlarge  upon  the  room's 
advantages. 

"There's  a  lovely  bath  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and 
in  winter  the  house  is  always  warm  and  comfortable. 
You  can  have  a  gas  stove " 

But  Carey  didn't  listen.  He  stood  at  the  window  and 
vacantly  gazed  into  the  street.  Some  of  the  things  that 
Gregory  Shilling  had  said  came  back  to  him.  Was  this 
the  place  where  he  could  entrench  himself  against  the 
overwhelming  odds  that  pressed  about?  Twenty-five 
thousand  artists !  Twenty-five  thousand  who  made  their 
living  by  the  same  and  only  means  he  knew!  Could  he 
create  the  things  here  that  would  give  him  a  foothold  ? 

A  sparrow  lit  on  the  window-sill  and  jerked  its  head 


THE  AMATEUR  55 


about,  eyeing  his  shadow  through  the  glass  suspiciously. 

".  .  .  he's  an  awful  nice  man,"  Miss  Watt,  ensconced 
in  the  Morris  chair,  was  saying.  "And  then,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  hall  is  Mr.  Hart.  He's  a  salesman ;  and  next 
to  him  is  Mr.  French  and  Mr.  McNeil.  They're  with  a 
publishing  house.  They  have  the  room  corresponding  to 
this  one  at  the  back  of  the  house.  Mr.  Blanchard's  in 
between.  He's  an  old  man  and  don't  make  no  more  noise 
than  a  mouse.  Doctor  Floherty  has  the  hall  room  next  to 
this.  He's  at  St.  Vincent's  Hospital  most  of  the  time. 
You  won't  be  disturbed.  There  ain't  a  noisy  person  in 
the  house." 

"And  the  rent  of  this  room  with  board?"  asked  Carey. 
He  dreaded  her  reply. 

"Ten  dollars  a  week."  And  then,  as  an  afterthought, 
she  added,  "in  advance." 

More  to  disguise  his  jubilation  than  for  any  other  rea 
son,  Carey  said,  mechanically: 

"I'm  afraid  that's  more  than  I  expected  to  pay." 

Miss  Watt  began  violently  to  shake  her  head  and 
compressed  her  lips  firmly.  Then,  abruptly,  she  said : 

"Well,  if  you'll  stay  right  through  the  summer,  I'll 
make  it  nine."  She  smiled  at  him  encouragingly. 

Carey's  answering  smile  was  involuntary  and  genuine. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.    "When  can  I  move  in?" 

"When  you  please."  Miss  Watt  struggled  out  of  the 
low  seat  and  got  to  her  feet.  "There's  generally  a  de 
posit >"  she  began. 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  Carey.  He  handed  her  nine  dol 
lars  in  bills.  "I'll  send  my  trunk  over  from  the  hotel  this 
afternoon." 

Later  in  the  day,  when  he  arrived  in  front  of  his  new 
home,  carrying  his  loaded  suitcase,  he  felt  that  there  was 


56  THE  AMATEUR 


something  very  pleasant  and  friendly  about  it.  Already 
he  was  aware  of  a  bond  between  it  and  himself.  This 
was  where  he  lived;  this  was  his  home.  He  looked  up 
at  the  house  again,  as  he  had  when  the  smartly-dressed 
youth  had  suddenly  opened  its  front  door  and  run  lightly 
down  the  front  steps.  It  was  modest,  quiet,  unpreten 
tious  and  home-like.  And  nine  dollars  a  week  seemed  too 
marvellous  to  be  true !  He  had  the  same  impression  when 
he  set  his  suitcase  down  in  his  own  room  and,  out  of 
breath,  dropped  luxuriously  into  the  comfortable  Morris 
chair.  This  was  something  like !  Just  what  he  wanted ! 
It  would  serve  admirably  for  a  few  months,  until  he 
caught  on.  Then  he  could  look  round  for  a  studio. 
Some  day  he  would  have  one,  with  tapestries  and  carved 
furniture  and  tall  candlesticks,  and  old  Eschen  would 
give  his  promising  pupils  letters  of  introduction  to  Carey 
Williams.  In  the  meantime,  his  posters  would  make  a 
very  attractive  frieze  around  these  walls,  and  the  pen-and- 
ink  original  from  Mirth  would  look  well  above  the  marble 
mantel,  and  the  cartoon  of  Roosevelt  might  hang  be 
tween  the  windows. 

He  flung  his  suitcase  upon  the  bed,  threw  back  its  lid, 
and  began  to  put  his  things  away. 

About  half -past  five,  he  heard  some  of  the  other  board 
ers  come  in.  Two  of  them  came  running  up  the  stairs 
together.  They  were  laughing,  and  he  heard  one  ani 
mated  and  high-pitched  voice  say: 

"I  wrote  down  just  what  he  asked  me  to,  and  then 
Miss  Hibbard  picks  up  the  sheet  and  screams  out  so 
everybody  in  the  office  could  hear,  'That's  the  very  thing 
I  want  to  know,  Mac!' — and  I  began  to  laugh." 

A  closing  door  shut  off  the  rest  of  the  words,  but  Carey 


THE  AMATEUR  57 


could  still  hear  the  murmur  of  conversation  and  an  oc 
casional  burst  of  laughter. 

A  few  minutes  later,  there  were  other  feet  on  the 
stairs,  and  a  man  entered  the  hall  bedroom  next  to  his 
and  shut  the  door.  Carey  heard  him  moving  about, 
opening  and  shutting  drawers,  raising  the  window,  going 
to  and  fro.  Below  him,  rose  the  music  of  a  piano;  the 
touch  was  a  professional's.  Stirred  by  the  melody,  a 
canary  somewhere  began  to  trill  shrilly.  The  house  be 
came  vibrant  with  the  tread  of  feet,  with  noise  and 
movement.  Increasingly  it  teemed  with  life,  vigorous 
and  eager,  throbbing  to  the  energy  that  had  swiftly 
occupied  it. 

At  half -past  six,  the  supper  bell  rang.  The  faint  tinkle 
came  struggling  up  through  the  stair-well,  but  it  was  evi 
dently  sufficient  to  answer  its  purpose.  Almost  simul 
taneously,  doors  opened,  the  piano  ceased,  voices  arose 
in  the  hall,  and  there  came  the  sound  of  descending  feet 
upon  the  stairs.  Carey  waited  a  little  and  followed. 

The  dining  room  was  in  the  basement.  Half-way 
down,  Carey  could  hear  the  raised  voices,  the  rattle  of 
silverware  and  the  clatter  of  dishes.  The  house  was 
filled  with  the  hot  smell  of  cooking.  He  dreaded  the 
ordeal  of  introductions,  but  he  knew  these  were  inevitable 
and  the  sooner  gotten  over  the  better.  He  stifled  the  im 
pulse  to  go  out  and  eat  his  dinner  in  some  restaurant, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  found  himself  on  the  last  flight  and 
standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  brilliantly  lighted,  over 
heated  room. 

In  the  centre  was  a  large  oval  table,  about  which, 
seated  as  close  to  one  another  as  possible,  crowded  some 
fifteen  people.  On  the  further  side  an  empty  chair  indi 
cated  where  the  new  boarder  was  to  sit.  Carey's  first 
impression  was  that  they  all  seemed  uncomfortable, 


58  THE  AMATEUR 


squeezing  together  about  the  table,  huddling  over  their 
food.  Miss  Watt's  towering  figure  rose  from  the  end  of 
the  table  and  confronted  him.  And  then  the  introduc 
tions  began.  Carey  nodded  and  smiled  and  muttered, 
"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  over  and  over.  All  the  time  he 
was  aware  that  the  negro,  who  had  been  cleaning  up  the 
area-way  in  the  morning  and  was  now  clothed  in  a  very 
spotty  dress  suit,  was  standing  just  behind  him  balancing 
three  plates  of  soup,  waiting  impatiently  for  the  formali 
ties  to  be  over.  Presently  he  found  himself  beside  his 
own  place  at  table,  and  there  was  a  general  inching  of 
chairs  to  allow  him  to  squeeze  between  the  flanking 
diners  and  draw  up.  He  did  not  raise  his  eyes  until  his 
soup  was  finished,  and  then  the  man  at  his  left  elbow 
said  pleasantly: 

"How  do  you  like  New  York?" 

Carey  turned  about  to  find  he  was  sitting  next  to  the 
smartly-dressed  youth.  The  other  grinned  at  him  boy 
ishly,  and  Carey  smiled  in  return. 

"My  name's  Jerry  Hart,"  said  the  smartly-dressed 
youth.  "In  all  the  hubbub  when  you  came  in  I  guess  you 
didn't  get  many  names.  Old  Watt's  good-hearted,  but 
she's  an  awful  fuss-button." 

They  spoke  in  carefully  controlled  voices;  in  the  gen 
eral  confusion  and  noisy  conversation  that  prevailed  no 
one  could  overhear  them. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  a  stranger  here?"  asked 
Carey. 

"I  saw  you  this  morning,  rubbering  up  at  the  house 
when  I  was  going  out,  and  you  looked  like  a  Westerner." 

"I  am,"  said  Carey. 

"Well,  I'm  from  California,"  said  Jerry  Hart.  "I 
don't  suppose  you're  a  native?" 

"No,"  admitted  Carey,  "I've  never  been  as  far  West 


THE  AMATEUR  59 


as  that.     I  was  never  out  of  my  state  till  I  came  East." 

"What  do  you  do  for  a  living?" 

"Draw." 

"Huh!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hart  noncommittally.  "I'm 
just  an  ordinary,  common  garden  variety.  I'm  a  sales 
man.  I  sell  graphite." 

"What?    For  pencils?"  asked  Carey. 

"No— grease." 

Here  their  conversation  was  interrupted  by  a  tall, 
flabby- faced  young  man  at  the  end  of  the  table,  who  had 
risen  to  carve  the  roast  beef. 

"Do  you  like  your  meat  well-done  or  rare,  Mr.  Wil 
liams?" 

"And  mashed  potato?"  beamed  Miss  Watt,  whose  seat 
was  next.  She  sat  poised  with  a  serving  spoon  full  of 
vegetable  ready  to  slap  it  on  the  plate  when  it  should  be 
passed  to  her. 

A  general  talk  began  concerning  an  organ-grinder  who 
appeared  every  Saturday  morning  in  front  of  the  house 
to  turn  the  handle  of  a  decrepit  instrument  which  emitted 
melodies  as  superannuated  as  itself. 

"We've  been  here  going  on  ten  years,  and  he  hasn't 
ever  missed  a  Saturday,"  said  an  elderly  woman  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  who,  from  the  fact  that  she  so  closely 
resembled  Miss  Watt,  Carey  knew  must  be  Mrs.  Fill- 
more.  She  was  not  as  large  as  her  sister,  but  older,  and 
their  resemblance  was  intensified  by  the  fact  that  they 
dressed  alike,  in  white,  bulging  shirt-waists  and  stiff 
duck  skirts. 

"Well,  now,  I  like  the  hurdy-gurdies,"  began  some  one, 
and  Carey,  lost  sight  of  in  the  conversation,  took  advan 
tage  of  it  to  study  the  different  people  about  him. 

The  tall,  flabby-faced  young  man,  who  served  at  the 
end  of  the  table  opposite  Mrs.  Fillmore,  Carey  sur- 


60  THE  AMATEUR 


mised  must  be  the  son,  Charley.  Miss  Watt,  digging  her 
long-handled  serving  spoon  vigorously  into  the  white 
mound  before  her,  sat  at  his  right,  while,  on  his  left,  a 
thin,  careworn  woman,  with  a  carefully  cultivated  ex 
pression  of  boredom,  filled  a  pile  of  chipped  vegetable 
dishes  with  boiled  onions.  It  was  easy  to  infer  from 
their  careless  indifference  to  one  another  that  she  was 
Charley  Fillmore's  wife.  Next  to  her  sat  an  affable  old 
man  addressed  by  the  others  as  Mr.  Blanchard.  He  took 
a  very  active  part  in  the  talk  and  spoke,  so  Carey  thought, 
intelligently  and  well.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  neither 
a  boarder  nor  a  member  of  the  family.  t  His  daughter,  a 
girl  of  twenty-eight  or  nine,  sat  next  to  him.  She 
laughed,  violently  suppressing  her  mirth,  at  almost  every 
thing  that  was  said,  and  was  called  "Anna"  by  the  Fill- 
mores.  No  one  could  have  thought  her  pretty.  Her 
face  was  disfigured  by  a  large  and  prominent  nose  that 
curved  symmetrically  outward,  terminating  in  a  fat  mar 
ble-shaped  knob,  the  nostrils  being  unusually  long  and 
narrow.  It  was  a  man's  nose,  ugly  and  heavy ;  the  pow 
der  could  not  hide  the  enlarged,  dark  pores  in  the  skin. 
But  there  was  a  fresh  virginal  quality  to  her  face  that 
Carey  thought  very  attractive.  Her  throat,  exposed  by 
a  collarless  shirt-waist,  was  round  and  soft,  delicately 
tinted;  her  hair  curled  prettily  about  her  ears.  Con 
tinually  she  shook  with  silent  laughter,  convulsed  by  a 
murmur  of  low  asides  that  Jerry  Hart,  who  sat  next  her, 
whispered  in  her  ear. 

In  the  two  young  men  between  himself  and  Mrs.  Fill- 
more,  Carey  had  no  difficulty  in  recognising  French  and 
McNeil,  who  occupied  the  room  at  the  rear  of  the  house 
on  the  same  floor  as  his  own.  French,  who  came  first, 
was  evidently  as  much  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  say 
to  Carey  as  Carey  was  to  know  how  to  begin  a  conversa- 


THE  AMATEUR  61 


tion  with  him.  He  showed  his  willingness  to  be  friendly, 
however,  by  watching  out  for  Carey's  wants,  filling  his 
glass  from  the  carafe,  passing  the  bread  and  salt,  offering 
the  vinegar  and  catsup.  There  was  a  continual  inter 
change  of  "Oh,  thank  you/'  "You're  welcome,  I'm  sure," 
between  them.  Carey  noticed  that  the  inside  of  his  first 
two  fingers  was  darkly  stained  from  cigarettes.  French 
was  thin,  but  McNeil  was  fat — too  fat  for  so  young  a 
man.  Apart  from  mere  table  courtesies,  French  did  not 
speak  at  all ;  McNeil  as  little  as  possible. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  table  were  grouped  the  older 
men.  These  were  undoubtedly  the  boarders  who  supplied 
the  bulk  of  the  revenue ;  there  was  a  quiet  but  unmistak 
able  concern  for  their  welfare. 

"Charley,"  Mrs.  Fillmore's  harsh  voice  would  break 
into  the  general  discussion,  "Mr.  Vernaught,  I'm  sure, 
would  like  more  of  the  rare." 

Vernaught  was  the  aristocrat  of  the  company.  He  was 
English,  and  there  was  a  subtle  air  of  condescension  in 
his  bearing.  He  rarely  joined  in  the  conversation,  but 
listened  in  aloof  silence.  So  far  as  Carey  observed,  the 
only  remark  he  made  during  the  meal  was  addressed  to 
McNeil. 

"How  do  you  pronounce  Lamb's  Essays  in  this  coun 
try?"  he  asked.  "Do  you  say,  Essays  of  Eel-ia  or 
Essays  of  Eli-ah?" 

Directly  across  the  table  from  Carey  sat  Mr.  Durrant 
and  Mr.  Lambert.  They  occupied  the  room  directly 
underneath  his,  and  it  was  Mr.  Lambert  whom  he  had 
heard  at  the  piano.  He  learned  these  things  later.  Dur 
ing  the  first  dinner,  he  was  unable  to  catch  either  of  their 
names,  but  he  felt  fascinated  by  the  older  of  the  two, 
a  dark  man,  with  untidy  hair  and  a  decided  droop  of 
one  of  his  eyelids.  This  was  Durrant,  and  it  was  he  that 


62  THE  AMATEUR 


carried  on  most  of  the  talk.  He  spoke  easily  and  au 
thoritatively.  Carey  decided  he  liked  him  best  of  his 
new  acquaintances.  Durrant's  roommate  was  even 
darker  in  complexion.  His  face  was  olive-hued,  long  and 
oval ;  his  eyes  warm  and  luminous  like  an  Italian's.  His 
hands  were  long,  the  fingers  thin  and  bony.  Throughout 
the  meal,  he  played  nervously  with  the  knives,  forks  and 
spoons  within  reach. 

Washburn,  who  came  next,  Carey  had  already  met. 
There  was  something  rather  mysterious  about  his  thin 
face,  with  the  hollows  beneath  the  eyes  and  the  sunken 
cheeks.  A  crumb  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  which  per 
sisted  in  remaining  there,  annoyed  Carey  and  made  him 
uncomfortable;  he  could  not  keep  his  eyes  away  from  it. 
Constantly  he  found  himself  raising  his  napkin  to  wipe 
his  own  mouth. 

The  remaining  boarder  was  Doctor  Floherty,  who 
spoke  deliberately  but  with  a  warm,  mellow  accent.  He 
was  clean  shaven,  with  fine,  regular  features,  and  he  im 
pressed  Carey  with  a  certain  quality  of  refinement  the 
others  lacked. 

With  the  dessert,  which  consisted  of  corn-starch  pud 
ding  and  black  coffee,  Vernaught,  Lambert  and  Doctor 
Floherty  excused  themselves  and  departed.  Almost  all 
the  men  began  to  smoke,  French  rolling  his  cigarettes 
from  brown  paper  and  fine-cut  tobacco.  Charley  Fill- 
more  presented  Blanchard  with  a  cigar.  There  was  a 
general  edging  back  from  the  table  when  the  coffee  ap 
peared,  the  men  easing  their  constrained  positions,  stretch 
ing  their  legs. 

Blanchard  was  speaking  across  the  table  to  Durrant, 
stirring  his  coffee  and  inhaling  his  cigar  in  long,  deep 
breaths. 

"I've  lived  right  here  in  this  town,  sir,  for  fifty-seven 


THE  AMATEUR  63 


years,  and  never  once  have  I  ever  set  foot  inside  of 
Central  Park.  Ask  Annie — she'll  bear  me  out.'* 

Jerry  Hart  murmured  something  in  Miss  Blanchard's 
ear.  Carey  caught  the  words,  "bear  him  in,"  and  the 
girl  uttered  a  sort  of  squeak,  but  managed  to  strangle 
the  rest  of  the  laugh  in  the  folds  of  her  napkin.  For  sev 
eral  following  minutes,  Carey  could  see  her  convulsed 
shoulders  swaying  backward  and  forward  on  the  other 
side  of  his  neighbour. 

Miss  Watt,  leaning  comfortably  back  in  her  chair,  her 
large,  plump  hands  resting  on  her  prominent  abdomen, 
regarded  the  company  benignly.  Every  once  in  a  while, 
Carey  felt  her  gaze  turn  upon  himself  like  the  glare  of  a 
calcium. 

French  and  McNeil,  having  finished  their  second  help 
ing  of  cornstarch,  were  discussing  plans  for  the  evening. 

Jerry  Hart  leaned  over  to  whisper  in  Carey's  ear: 

"Why  don't  some  one  tell  Washburn  there's  a  gazelle 
on  the  lawn  ?"  he  said. 

Carey  turned  a  puzzled  look  at  him. 

"That  crumb  he's  got  there  on  his  lip!  We  call  it  a 
'gazelle  on  the  lawn'  out  home.  Some  one  ought  to  put 
him  wise ;  it  may  grow  there." 

Here  Mrs.  Fillmore  felt  it  her  duty  to  draw  Carey  into 
the  conversation. 

"Two  members  of  the  family  you  haven't  seen  yet, 
Mr.  Williams." 

Carey  wondered  where  they  could  possibly  sit  at  meals. 

"They're  my  grandchildren,"  continued  Mrs.  Fillmore, 
"Charley's — my  son's  children.  You'll  see  them  in  the 
morning.  They  are  the  prettiest  little  girls  you  ever  saw, 
Mr.  Williams.  Flora  and  Daisy's  their  names." 

Carey  smiled,  but  couldn't  think  of  anything  to  say, 
especially  as  Jerry  Hart  kicked  him  sharply  on  the  ankle. 


64  THE  AMATEUR 


During  an  altercation  between  Durrant  and  Washburn 
as  to  the  number  of  weeks  a  certain  musical  show  had 
been  playing  at  a  Broadway  theatre,  Carey  could  hear 
Miss  Watt  arguing  the  merits  of  a  toilet  soap  with  Char 
ley  's  wife. 

"It  costs  forty  cents  a  cake,  but  it  lasts  four  times  as 
long." 

"I'm  sure  it's  been  on  since  Washington's  birthday, 
because  I  took  my  cousin  to  the  matinee." 

"Annie — pass  Mr.  Williams*  cup.  You'll  have  an 
other  cup  of  coffee,  Mr.  Williams?  They're  so  tiny. 
Do  stop  laughing,  Annie!  Mr.  Hart,  you  must  behave. 
You'll  have  Annie  in  hysterics." 

"Ever  been  in  Central  Park,  Mr.  Williams  ?  I've  lived 
in  this  city  fifty-seven  years,  sir,  and  I've  never  set  foot 
inside  it." 

There  was  something  very  friendly  and  pleasant  about 
it  all,  Carey  thought.  Most  of  them  might  be  common, 
uncouth  and  even  ill-bred,  perhaps,  but  they  possessed  a 
general  warm-heartedness,  a  kindly  interest  and  an  evi 
dent  willingness  to  make  him  one  of  them,  that  was  com 
forting  and  cheering. 

Presently,  when  they  all  rose  together  and  went  up 
stairs,  Jerry  Hart  stopped  Carey  in  the  front  hall. 

"Walk  over  to  Fourth  Avenue  with  me,"  he  said,  "if 
you  haven't  anything  better  to  do.  I'm  all  out  of  cigar 
ettes." 

"My  hat's  up  in  my  room,"  Carey  explained,  "if  you'll 
wait " 

"Oh,  hang  your  bonnet,"  said  the  other  pleasantly. 
"It's  just  a  block  and  a  half.  Nobody  wears  a  hat  in 


summer." 


As  the  two  sauntered  down  the  street  together,  Jerry 
Hart  began  to  "put  Carey  wise,"  as  he  expressed  it,  to 


THE  AMATEUR  65 


the  peculiarities  of  their  fellow  boarders  and  the  estab 
lishment  in  general. 

"It  ain't  a  swell  dump,"  he  said.  "But  they  treat  you 
pretty  decently.  The  house  belonged  once  to  some  big 
actor  or  maybe  it  was  an  actress, — I've  forgotten.  The 
Fillmores  used  to  have  plenty  of  the  long  green,  but  that 
bum,  Charley,  blew  it  all  in  flyin'  in  Wall  Street.  Now  he 
sits  round  and  lets  the  women  feed  an'  clothe  him.  He's  a 
mess.  Blanchard  used  to  have  some  cush,  too,  but  Char 
ley  got  his  hooks  on  it  and  busted  the  old  man.  Now  he 
chops  the  wood  for  the  kitchen  stove  and  Annie  makes 
the  beds.  She's  not  much  of  a  looker, — but  she's  got  a 
shape  like  a  figure  eight,  and  when  it  comes  to  work 
she  certainly  is  a  hummer.  There  ain't  a  live  one  in  the 
bunch  but  Floherty,  and  he  gets  edged  if  a  brewery  wagon 
passes  him  in  the  street.  Durrant's  all  right,  although 
he's  got  the  pip;  but  he  certainly  can  play  a  swell  little 
game  of  poker.  Say,"  Hart  stopped  abruptly  and  caught 
Carey's  arm,  "do  you  like  poker?" 

"Oh,  I  know  the  game,"  admitted  Carey,  "but  I  like 
bridge  whist  better.  What's  that  building  down  there  ?" 

They  reached  the  corner  of  Irving  Place.  Two  blocks 
down,  a  cross  street  was  a  dazzling  blaze  of  light  and 
colour.  A  steady  stream  of  people  passed  and  repassed. 
Electric  fire  signs  lapped  one  upon  another.  It  was  like 
a  Midway — a  street  for  seekers  of  amusement — the  main 
thoroughfare  of  a  city  en  fete.  On  the  corner,  a  huge, 
dull  brick  building  sat  sphinx-like,  possessing  some  queer 
quality  of  dignity  in  spite  of  the  cheap  brilliancy  and 
gaudy  colouring  that  hemmed  it  about.  A  sustained  and 
pulsing  murmur,  like  that  of  a  train  upon  a  distant  trestle, 
reached  Carey's  ears.  It  was  the  sound  of  the  shuffling 
of  many  thousands  of  feet  and  the  laughter  and  voices  of 
a  great  throng  of  people  moving  to  and  fro. 


66  THE  AMATEUR 


"That's  the  Academy  of  Music,"  said  Jerry  Hart, 
pointing  to  the  dark,  silent  pile  upon  the  lower  corner. 
"They  pull  off  some  fair  shows  there  in  winter.  It's  shut 
up  now." 

"Is  that  the  place  where  Patti  and  Jenny  Lind  used 
to  sing?"  asked  Carey,  deeply  impressed.  "I've  heard 
my  father  speak  about  it." 

"That's  the  gilded  cage  where  the  birdies  used  to  war 
ble,"  confirmed  his  new  friend.  "Why,  my  son,"  he  con 
tinued  patronisingly,  "you  live  in  an  'eeristocratic'  neigh 
bourhood,  let  me  tell  you.  Up  there's  where  the  guy  that 
wrote — you  know — 'Rip  van  Winkle'  lived,  and  round 
the  corner  is  Tammany  Hall,  and  across  the  street  from 
that  is  where  Sailor  Sharkey  hands  out  the  booze.  If  you 
buy  a  quart  of  wine,  Mr.  Sharkey  will  be  glad  to  shake 
your  hand.  Up  that  way  is  the  dear  old  moth-eaten 
Westminster  Hotel.  People  used  to  come  for  miles, 
long  ago,  to  get  their  drinks  set  out  to  'em  on  the  marble 
bar.  It  was  the  only  marble  bar  that  ever  was  seen. 
The  Everett  House  is  down  that  way,  on  Union  Square, 
and  it  used  to  be  the  finest  hotel  in  the  city  twenty-five 
years  ago.  That's  the  German  Theatre  over  there,  and 
right  across  the  street  is  that  estimable  old  institution 
revered  by  every  New  Yorker  alike — the  Consolidated 
Gas  Company." 

Carey  laughed.  Jerry's  queer,  sophisticated  humour 
amused  him. 

"I  wish  we  had  our  hats !"  he  exclaimed.  "You  know, 
I  don't  know  anything  about  this  town  at  all.  I've  only 
been  here  four  days.  I  don't  even  know  in  which  direc 
tion  is  the  Bowery." 

"Well,  pin  your  roll  to  your  suspenders  with  a  strong 
steel  safety  pin,  and  you'll  learn.  I'm  sorry  I  can't  show 
you  the  town  to-night,  but  I've  got  a  date  with  a  jinny 


THE  AMATEUR  67 


at  eight  sharp,  and  I've  shortly  got  to  be  on  my  way. 
Let's  chase  up  those  cigarettes." 

They  crossed  the  street  and  continued  on  towards 
Fourth  Avenue,  Jerry  keeping  up  a  continual  flow  of 
conversation  for  the  edification  of  his  eager  listener. 

"Watt  is  all  right.  She's  got  a  good  heart,  but  she  can 
talk  you  deaf,  dumb  and  blind.  They  all  let  on  that  the 
house  belongs  to  Mamma  Muggins,  but  Watt's  got  a  half- 
interest,  so  if  you're  ever  late  with  your  board,  see 
Wattsey.  Mamma  Muggins  is  an  old  battle-axe." 

"Who's  Mamma  Muggins?"  asked  Carey. 

"Fillmore!"  exclaimed  the  other.  "Agnes  Anastatia 
Augusta  Fillmore ! — Watt's  sister.  The  kids — Charley's 
blob- faced  brats — call  her  Mamma  Muggins.  Every  one 
calls  her  that.  She's  cream  of  tartar  all  right,  but  Charley 
dear  can  help  himself  to  as  much  as  precious  pleases 
every  time  he  wants  to  blow  the  boys!  They  row  all 
the  time.  We've  a  pretty  good  bunch  on  that  top  floor. 
McNeil  and  French  aren't  a  noisy  team,  but  Mac  can  tell 
some  swell  yarns,  and  French  can  sling  the  ink,  so  they 
tell  me.  He's  got  a  lot  of  thinks  in  his  bean.  My  room's 
next  to  theirs — the  end  of  the  hall.  The  Doc's  the  bell- 
cow,  if  he  lets  the  grape  alone.  I  don't  mind  a  fellow 
gettin'  a  souse,  provided  he  don't  make  a  nuisance  of 
himself  to  everybody  else." 

They  stopped  in  front  of  a  cigar  store  with  pool  and 
billiard  tables  in  the  rear,  bought  the  cigarettes,  and 
started  home  again. 

"Which  one  of  the  fellows  is  Lambert?"  asked  Carey. 

"He's  the  dark,  Eye-talien  looking  gink.  He's  a  wiz 
on  the  ivories;  plays  the  organ  at  a  big  church  some- 
wheres  up  in  Harlem.  Durrant's  in  the  same  room. 
They've  been  side-kickers  ever  since  they  were  kids. 
Vernaught  gives  me  a  pain  in  the  left  foot.  He  sells 


68  THE  AMATEUR 


antiques  on  Fifth  Avenue.  His  second  cousin  was  valet 
to  the  Earl  of  Devonshire's  mother's  half-brother.  He 
thinks  he's  a  damned  sight  too  good  for  us  Americans. 
'Hit's  a  beastly  shame,  don't-cher-know,  that  he's  got  to 
live  in  a  boardin'  'ouse  with  a  lot  of  rotters  like  us!' 
Washburn's  in  a  carriage  factory.  His  old  man  used  to 
own  it,  but  it's  going  to  bust  on  account  of  the  automobile 
business.  I  tell  him  he's  a  chump  not  to  beat  'em  to  it 
and  make  the  upper  part  of  the  car — you  know — the  body 
— and  sell  it  to  the  guys  that  make  the  engines.  Well, 
you'll  like  it  here,  I  think.  There  ain't  any  old  maids 
fussing  about  with  their  cough  syrups  and  knitting.  You 
can  smoke  in  the  dining-room  and  come  home  with  a  bun 
on,  and  as  long  as  you  can  crawl  upstairs  without  waking 
the  house,  nobody  gives  a  damn." 

They  reached  the  house  and  found  Anna  Blarichard 
and  Charley  Fillmore  sitting  on  the  steps  in  the  gathering 
dusk. 

"Sparking,  I  see!"  called  Jerry  Hart  when  they  were 
near  enough.  The  remark,  trivial  as  it  was,  was  sufficient 
to  convulse  the  girl,  and  the  thought  flashed  through 
Carey's  mind:  "Is  it  possible  she's  in  love  with  him!" 

Explaining  that  he'd  be  late  if  he  didn't  "get  a  wiggle 
on,"  Jerry  said  good  night  and  disappeared  into  the 
house.  Carey  lingered  a  moment  on  the  stoop.  From 
the  open  windows  above  came  the  sound  of  Lambert's 
piano.  Children  were  playing  in  the  street.  White, 
shapeless  forms  upon  the  steps  of  the  houses  opposite 
showed  where  the  women  were  still  sitting  enjoying  the 
refreshing  coolness  of  the  early  summer  evening.  Occa 
sionally  the  sound  of  their  voices  and  laughter  floated 
across  the  street.  A  belated  delivery  wagon  rattled  up 
suddenly ;  one  of  the  boys  on  the  front  seat  leaped  to  the 
street,  package  in  hand,  before  the  horses  were  pulled  up. 


THE  AMATEUR  69 


Carey  flung  his  cigarette  away  and  turned  into  the 
house,  calling  good  night  to  the  two  figures  on  the  lower 
steps.  Slowly  he  began  to  mount  the  stairs.  The  house 
still  retained  the  odour  of  dinner.  From  the  basement 
rose  the  smell  of  soaking  washing,,  the  clatter  of  crock 
ery,  and  the  raised  voices  of  the  servants,  muffled  by 
closed  doors.  As  he  passed  Lambert's  room,  he  lingered, 
compelled  by  the  music.  It  was  an  intricate  composi 
tion  with  poignant  melodic  harmonies,  built  one  upon 
another,  rising  higher  and  higher,  exquisitely  beautiful. 
Abruptly  it  ended.  There  followed  a  moment  of  vacant 
silence,  the  brisk  crackle  of  a  newspaper  and  the  matter- 
of-fact  tone  of  Durrant's  voice: 

"I  see  they're  going  to  get  the  subway  really  going  this 
fall.  That  will  make  it  easy  for  you,  Paul." 

As  he  climbed  the  last  flight,  Carey  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Jerry  Hart,  the  door  of  whose  room  was  open,  strug 
gling  with  his  dress  collar.  From  McNeil's  and  French's 
room  came  the  pat-pat-pat-pat-pat  of  a  typewriter,  the 
"z-ing"  of  the  signal  bell  and  sharp  rasp  of  the  returned 
carriage. 

Carey  closed  his  own  door  behind  him.  Both  windows 
were  wide  open,  and  for  a  long  time  he  knelt  at  one  of 
them,  leaning  out,  watching  the  life  of  the  street  below. 
Then  he  lit  the  single  gas  jet,  fitted  with  a  Welsbach 
burner,  drew  up  a  chair  to  the  marble-topped  table,  and 
began  a  long  letter  to  Joe  Downer. 


CHAPTER  V 


CAREY'S  trunk  was  not  delivered  from  the  hotel 
until  the  following  morning.  He  enjoyed  unpack 
ing  it  and  putting  away  his  clothes  and  other  belongings 
in  the  closet  and  the  drawers  of  the  lop-sided  bureau. 
Most  interested  was  he  in  examining  the  sample  of  his 
own  work  which,  carefully  arranged  in  a  big  portfolio, 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  his  trunk.  Some  of  his  larger  com 
positions  and  his  swivel  drawing  table  were  to  be  sent  to 
him  by  express.  He  had  written  to  Joe  the  night  before, 
asking  him  to  ship  them  on  to  him  at  once.  Most  of  the 
contents  of  the  portfolio  were  reproductions  of  his  work. 
Somehow,  he  felt  that  in  the  few  days  he  had  been  in 
New  York,  he  had  acquired  a  broader  and  more  critical 
point  of  view.  During  his  wanderings  about  the  city 
the  day  after  his  arrival,  he  had  come  upon  a  book  store 
in  whose  window  a  certain  magazine  had  a  display  of  its 
current  issue.  A  number  of  the  original  drawings  that 
had  been  used  were  exhibited,  and  these  Carey  had  ex 
amined  with  absorbed  attention.  One  of  them  was  by 
Gregory  Shilling;  another,  an  oil  in  full  colour,  by  John 
Cameron  Wilson.  The  latter  Carey  had  admired  im 
mensely,  marvelling  at  the  way  the  artist  had  laid  his 
colour  on  the  canvas  and  the  effect  of  the  painter's  bold 
and  reckless  technique.  He  had  taken  a  new  interest,  too, 

70 


THE  AMATEUR  71 


in  studying  the  covers  of  the  magazines  on  the  news 
stands,  and  the  illustrations  in  those  that  he  had  bought. 

As  he  walked  around  the  streets,  he  was  constantly 
seeing  excellent  bits  of  composition,  or  a  striking  face 
that  would  make  an  admirable  sketch.  A  glimpse  of  a 
vista  down  a  side  street,  the  effect  of  silver  light  from 
electrics  on  the  foliage  of  trees,  the  glowing  halos  about 
the  street  lamps  on  Fifth  Avenue,  the  indigo-tinted 
shadows  of  tall  sky-scrapers  at  high  noon,  registered 
themselves  upon  his  mind  in  flying  sequence.  He  knew 
these  impressions  upon  his  fresh  vision  were  invaluable. 
He  longed  to  make  notes  of  them. 

Never  was  his  creative  faculty  more  active.  He  was 
all  eagerness  to  get  to  work.  He  felt  the  possibilities  of 
great  achievement. 

After  he  had  arranged  his  few  possessions,  hung  the 
original  drawing  from  Mirth  and  the  cartoon  of  Roose 
velt  in  the  places  he  had  selected  for  them,  he  turned  to 
his  own  work  with  a  strange  feeling  of  curiosity  and 
apprehension.  It  impressed  him  as  being  even  worse 
than  he  had  feared.  It  seemed  to  him  now  the  work  of 
a  boy,  crude  and  meritless.  He  put  it  away  grimly  and 
decided  not  to  allow  himself  to  think  about  it.  However 
bad  it  might  be,  it  represented  so  much  accomplished, 
so  much  that  had  been  reproduced,  that  had  served  the 
purpose  with  the  presumable  satisfaction  to  those  who 
had  bought  it.  On  Monday  he  would  set  out  to  put  it  to 
the  test.  He  believed  it  was  better  than  some  of  the 
stuff  in  the  magazines.  The  best  he  could  hope  was  that 
it  might  indicate  what  he  was  capable  of  doing,  if  only  he 
were  given  the  chance.  The  Art  Editors  must  be  trained 
critics,  and  it  was  not  inconceivable  that  one  among 
them  might  perceive  something  in  it,  might  recognise  that 
here  was  a  young  artist  who  had  possibilities. 


72  THE  AMATEUR 


Friday  afternoon  he  spent  at  the  Metropolitan  Museum 
of  Art.  It  was  a  day  of  the  week  on  which  admission 
is  charged,  but  Carey  cheerfully  paid  the  quarter  of  a 
dollar  and  enjoyed  the  feeling  that  he  was  privileged 
thereby.  He  also  purchased  a  catalogue,  and  was  among 
the  last  to  leave  the  galleries  when  the  closing  hour  ar 
rived. 

He  had  been  looking  forward  for  years  to  this  first 
visit  to  the  Metropolitan.  His  feeling  as  he  left  the  build 
ing  was  more  of  contempt  than  disappointment.  It  was 
impossible  to  believe  himself  lacking  in  appreciation.  The 
greater  part  of  the  paintings  were  atrociously  bad.  One 
did  not  need  to  be  an  expert  to  see  this ;  it  was  obvious 
to  the  casual  visitor  with  the  slightest  feeling  for  beauty 
of  form,  colour  or  composition.  But  Carey  found  real 
inspiration  in  the  two  Vermeers  and  the  Franz  Hals 
portraits.  He  liked  some  of  the  Diaz  landscapes  and 
the  exquisite  execution  of  the  Detaille  and  Meissonier 
military  compositions.  The  Rosa  Bonheur  Horsefair 
he  thought  was  quite  as  absurd  and  badly  drawn  as  he 
had  always  considered  it  to  be  from  the  innumerable 
reproductions  he  had  seen.  He  believed  that  Frederick 
Remington  knew  a  great  deal  more  about  the  anatomy 
of  the  horse  than  the  famous  French  animal  painter.  The 
Jean  d'Arc  of  Bastien  Le  Page  he  found  of  interest 
more  from  his  recent  reading  of  the  Bashkirtseff  journal 
than  for  any  particular  appeal  in  the  picture  itself.  It 
was  not  that  these  paintings — some  of  them  at  least — 
were  not  works  of  art  worthy  to  find  a  place  in  such  a 
gallery.  He  supposed  they  were  all  very  fine  in  their 
way;  but  they  seemed  remote,  lacking  in  power  to  make 
him  stand  before  them  and  feel  the  tightening  of  his  heart 
and  the  prick  of  tears  back  of  his  eyes,  the  physical  effect 
that  great  art — whether  on  canvas,  the  printed  page,  or 


THE  AMATEUR  73 


the  stage — invariably  produced  upon  him  when,  as  he 
expressed  it,  "it  got  over."  The  Franz  Hals  and  the 
Vermeers  had  done  this;  but  the  rest  left  him  cold  and 
unmoved. 

Perhaps  what  he  saw  that  most  affected  him  during 
the  afternoon  was  a  group  of  four  old  men  and  three 
women  with  their  easels  arranged  as  close  together  as 
possible,  crowding  about  the  painting  of  The  Storm, 
by  Pierre  Auguste  Cot,  popularly  known  as  Paul  and 
Virginia,  each  one  making  a  hasty  copy  of  it.  Carey 
watched  them  for  a  time.  They  were  not  interested  in 
each  other's  work;  they  spoke  no  word  among  them 
selves;  occasionally  one  of  them  would  glance  up  at  the 
great  glass  skylight  above  and  look  anxiously  at  a  watch. 
Carey  saw  that  all  of  them  were  racing  with  the  fading 
light.  He  spoke  to  an  attendant  in  the  gallery. 

"They  sell  their  copies  to  art  dealers,"  the  man  ex 
plained.  "That  picture  is  more  in  demand  than  any 
other.  There's  always  a  lot  of  'em  copying  it.  Seven's 
all  that  can  get  round  it.  There  were  three  more  here 
this  morning,  and  one  of  'em  had  a  scrap  with  that  bald- 
headed  chap  over  there.  I  had  to  interfere.  The  bald- 
headed  chap  was  here  first,  so  I  told  the  other  fellow  to 
go  about  his  business." 

"What  do  they  get  for  their  copies  ?  What  do  they  sell 
them  for?'"  Carey  asked. 

"Oh,  they're  lucky  if  they  get  ten  dollars  apiece  for 
'em.  Some  get  only  a  couple  of  dollars." 

"Two  dollars!"  cried  Carey,  astonished.  "Why,  I 
can't  believe  it !  What  do  the  dealers  do  with  them  ?" 

"They  sell  them  to  different  people.  They  frame  'em 
up  nice,  in  big  gold  frames,  and  put  'em  in  a  wooden 
box  with  a  glass  face,  and  they  get  fifty  dollars,  or  maybe 


74  THE  AMATEUR 


seventy-five  apiece  for  'em.     Saloons  and  hotels  some 
times  order  quite  a  number  at  a  time." 

Carey  turned  away  sick  at  heart.  He  watched  the 
old  men  and  women  for  some  time,  fascinated  by  their 
intense  faces  bending  ever  nearer  and  nearer  to  their 
canvases  with  the  dimming  light.  They  had  copied  this 
picture  a  score  of  times  and  knew  just  how  to  mix  their 
colours,  just  what  to  leave  to  finish  up  at  home,  just  where 
they  must  give  close  attention  to  the  original.  The 
thought  persisted  in  Carey's  mind :  perhaps  they,  too, 
planned  to  be  great  artists  when  they  left  home,  young 
men  and  young  women,  to  come  to  New  York  to  do  big 
things.  Perhaps  he  would  be  among  their  number  when 
he  was  fifty  years  old,  selling  his  copies  to  a  local  art 
dealer  for  two  dollars  apiece ! 

In  the  evening,  he  and  Jerry  Hart  went  to  see  The 
Wizard  of  Oz  at  the  new  Majestic  Theatre.  They  occu 
pied  gallery  seats,  and  afterwards  visited  a  German  res 
taurant,  where  Carey  drank  more  imported  beer  than  was 
good  for  him.  The  next  morning  he  spent  riding  on  top 
of  a  Fifth  Avenue  bus,  and  in  the  afternoon  he  took  a 
long  walk  down  through  the  Bowery  and  half  way  across 
the  East  River  on  the  Brooklyn  Bridge. 

On  Sunday  he  went  to  church.  Anna  Blanchard 
taught  a  class  in  the  Sunday  School  of  St.  George's 
Church.  She  was  enthusiastic  about  the  minister,  and 
finally  persuaded  Carey  to  accompany  her  to  eleven 
o'clock  service.  But  he  dozed  through  most  of  the  ser 
mon  and  was  greatly  disturbed  for  fear  she  noticed 
it.  If  she  did,  she  said  nothing  about  it,  and  Carey  soon 
found  himself  mechanically  repeating  to  her  some  of 
her  own  phrases  in  praise  of  her  idol.  In  the  afternoon, 
he  walked  out  to  Central  Park,  wandered  about  the 


THE  AMATEUR  75 


drives  and  up  the  Mall,  hung  for  a  long  time  over  a 
parapet  looking  down  on  the  fountains  and  the  lagoon, 
on  which  the  first  hired  rowboats  of  the  season  were 
gliding  here  and  there,  the  young  man  at  the  oars,  invari 
ably  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  a  handkerchief  tied  about  his 
neck,  the  girl  in  the  stern  with  parasol  carefully  arranged 
with  regard  to  the  sun,  one  hand  carelessly  trailing  in  the 
water.  Endless  lines  of  carriages  and  motors  passed 
each  other  continuously  along  the  driveway,  while  on  the 
walks  baby  buggies,  standing  beside  the  benches  where 
their  attendants  rested,  impeded  the  progress  of  the  pe 
destrians.  From  the  Casino,  now  and  then  came  the 
faint  whine  of  a  string  orchestra  in  the  cafe.  Every 
where  rose  the  shrill  cries  of  children. 

Toward  five  o'clock,  Carey  turned  homeward.  He 
walked  all  the  way,  drinking  in  what  he  saw,  absorbed 
and  fascinated. 

Work  began  in  earnest  for  Carey  on  Monday.  At  nine- 
thirty  in  the  morning,  he  presented  himself  with  his 
portfolio  under  his  arm  at  the  offices  of  the  Consolidated 
Press  Syndicate,  and  sent  in  Gregory  Shilling's  card  of 
introduction  to  Mr.  Sherman.  He  was  presently  told 
that  Mr.  Sherman  would  see  him  in  a  few  minutes. 
Carey  sat  down  on  a  long,  wicker,  cushioned  seat  in 
the  outer  office  and  waited.  There  was  something  thrill 
ing  about  the  sharp  bustle  of  a  great  magazine  office  on 
a  Monday  morning.  Office  boys  were  continually  com 
ing  and  going,  proofs  of  advertisements  in  their  hands, 
packages  of  envelopes,  wire  baskets  full  of  fresh  mail. 
The  wicket  gate  in  the  railing  that  divided  the  outer 
office  banged  back  and  forth  with  a  continual  stream  of 
hurrying  clerks  and  boys.  The  operator  at  the  switch 
board,  near  which  Carey  sat,  was  working  with  lightning 


76  THE  AMATEUR 


rapidity,  pulling  out  plugs,  inserting  them,  pressing  the 
ivory  buttons,  disentangling  the  cords,  flipping  up  the 
little  brass  indicators  that  were  constantly  dropping 
down,  while  all  the  time  she  kept  up  a  constant  murmur. 

"Cortland  7821 — they're  busy,  Mr.  Reinhardt.  Who 
do  you  want?  Just  a  minute,  please.  This  is  the  Con 
solidated  Press.  Who  do  you  want  to  speak  to?  That 
was  the  wrong  number  you  gave  me,  Central.  Mr. 
Bigelow's  not  in  yet.  I'll  give  you  his  secretary.  I  can't 
get  them,  Mr.  Evans,  they  don't  answer." 

Suddenly  a  large  man  with  a  heavy  jaw  and  very  black 
moustache  appeared  in  the  doorway.  His  round  horn 
spectacles  were  pushed  up  on  his  bald  forehead;  in  his 
hand  he  held  the  business  card  of  a  salesman  who  was 
waiting  on  the  other  side  of  the  wicket  gate.  His  voice 
was  thick  and  guttural. 

"I  told  you,  sir,  that  I  won't  have  anything  to  do  with 
you  or  your  people.  The  last  two  deliveries  were  short, 
and  I  don't  propose  to  do  business  with  your  kind  of 
firm.  I  don't  employ  girls  to  count  envelopes.  They're 
here  to  address  'em ;  not  count  'em.  You'll  oblige  me  by 
not  coming  here  again." 

He  tore  the  card  he  held  into  four  pieces  and  threw  it 
into  a  waste  basket,  and  turned  on  his  heel.  The  sales 
man  flushed ;  he  stood  a  moment  with  a  glassy,  unseeing 
look  in  his  eyes ;  then  slowly  he  faced  the  heavy  glass  door 
behind  him,  swung  it  open,  and  went  out. 

Carey  waited.  With  the  return  of  every  boy  from  the 
inner  offices,  he  looked  up  expectantly.  But  no  one  paid 
him  any  attention.  Presently  another  artist  came  in  and 
asked  for  Mr.  Sherman.  He  carried  two  large  canvases, 
bound  together  by  a  shawl  strap,  their  painted  surfaces 
held  apart  by  wooden  pegs.  Almost  immediately  he  was 
requested  to  step  into  Mr.  Sherman's  office.  Ten  min- 


THE  AMATEUR  77 


utes  later  he  came  out,  rolling  up  the  shawl  strap,  casting 
a  curious  glance  at  Carey  and  his  portfolio. 

Another  half  hour  went  by.  In  a  lull  at  the  switch 
board,  the  operator  suddenly  turned  round  to  Carey: 

"Were  you  waiting  to  see  Mr.  Sherman  ?" 

Carey,  startled,  nodded  and  smiled. 

"I  guess  he's  forgotten  all  about  you,"  she  said. 

She  slipped  in  a  plug  and  pressed  a  button. 

"There's  an  artist  out  here  that's  been  waiting  an  hour 
to  see  you.  Do  you  want  him  to  come  again?"  She 
turned  almost  immediately  to  Carey.  "He  says  for  you 
to  come  right  in.  I'm  sorry/'  she  continued  kindly.  "You 
were  so  quiet,  I  forgot  about  you,  myself.  I  generally 
have  to  jog  his  memory.  He's  all  the  time  forgetting. 
It's  the  last  door  on  the  right — down  that  hall." 

Carey  presently  found  himself  standing  in  the  door 
way  of  a  small,  disorderly  office,  the  greater  part  of 
which  was  occupied  by  a  great  roll-top  desk.  A  row  of 
shelves  along  one  side  of  the  room  was  filled  with  maga 
zines  in  untidy  piles.  On  the  wall  beside  the  desk  was 
stretched  a  great  square  of  green  baize,  to  which  proofs 
of  half-tones  and  colour  reproductions  were  pinned. 
Against  the  wall  beneath  it,  leaned  the  two  large  can 
vases  that  had  just  been  delivered.  The  room  was  close 
and  the  air  was  heavy  with  odour  of  strong  cigars. 

The  man  at  the  desk  wheeled  about  as  Carey  ap 
peared  in  the  doorway.  He  held  out  his  hand  cordially : 

"You  must  excuse  me,  Mr.  Williams;  I  confess  I 
forgot  you  were  waiting.  Your  card,"  he  indicated 
where  it  had  been  rescued  from  the  litter  on  his  desk, 
"got  mixed  up  with  my  papers.  Monday  morning,"  he 
waved  his  hands  deprecatingly,  "Monday  morning 
usually  is  a  busy  time.  Now,  let's  see — you're  a  friend 
of  Gregory's?" 


78  THE  AMATEUR 


Sherman  was  middle-aged,  short  and  heavy  set.  His 
hair  and  beard  were  a  sort  of  sandy-grizzle;  his  com 
plexion  slate-coloured;  but  his  eyes  were  kindly  and 
twinkling. 

Carey  explained  his  chance  acquaintance  with  the  ar 
tist. 

"I  see— I  see,"  continued  Mr.  Sherman.  "Well,  let's 
take  a  look  at  your  stuff.  .  .  .  Excuse  me." 

The  telephone  rang  and,  while  Sherman  was  an 
swering  it,  Carey  untied  the  strings  of  the  portfolio  and 
opened  it  on  the  table  behind  the  Art  Editor's  chair. 

Sherman  swung  round  as  he  hung  up  the  receiver  and 
picked  up  the  first  of  Careys'  proofs.  But,  at  that  mo 
ment,  the  large  man  with  the  fat  jowl,  the  horn  spectacles 
still  pushed  up  on  his  bald  forehead,  came  into  the  room. 
He  laid  a  colour  proof  down  on  the  desk. 

"This  fellow  wants  the  earth.  Wells  and  Farnsworth 
just  rang  me  up.  They  say  Morrisey  wants  a  change  of 
copy  on  all  that  part  of  our  edition  that  goes  into  Canada. 
What's  it  going  to  cost?  I  won't  allow  'em  a  nickel! 
I  don't  care  if  we  lose  the  account.  They  want  to  use  the 
same  plates  but  new  text  matter.  We'll  have  to  get  a  new 
electro  of  the  blue  plate  and  stop  the  presses  and  make 
the  change!  That's  the  composition  and  eight  electros. 
I'll  charge  'em  twice  as  much  as  it  costs  us,  by  God.  Let 
me  know  as  soon  as  you  can." 

He  strode  out  of  the  room.  Sherman  picked  up  Car 
ey's  proof  again,  gazed  at  it  absently,  and  then  ran 
through  the  others,  turning  one  over  after  another,  giv 
ing  each  little  more  than  a  casual  glance.  Twice  before 
he  finished,  he  was  interrupted.  A  boy  came  in  with  a 
bill  to  be  O.  K-ed,  and  there  was  another  call  at  the  tele 
phone. 

"Let  me  have  your  name  and  address,  please.   If  some- 


THE  AMATEUR  79 


thing  comes  along  that  I  think  will  interest  you,  I'll  drop 
you  a  line." 

It  was  a  stock  phrase.  Carey  knew  Sherman  used  it  a 
hundred  times  a  week.  He  saw  that  he  had  lost  his  in 
terest  and  attention.  He  made  one  more  attempt  to  re 
gain  them. 

"Just  how  shall  I  go  about  getting  an  assignment,  Mr. 
Sherman?  I've  only  been  in  New  York  a  few  days. 
How  does  a  young  fellow  start  in?  Isn't  there  a  right 
way — a  short  cut?  Mr.  Schilling  said " 

"Short  cut?"  Sherman  interrupted.  "There's  no  such 
thing!  All  the  successful  men  had  to  start  in  just  as 
you've  got  to.  Go  round!  Go  call  on  the  magazines 
and  the  advertising  agencies,  and  keep  on  going.  There's 
no  other  way  I  know  of.  If  you're  looking  for  short 
cuts,  young  man,  I'd  advise  you  to  go  back  where  you 
came  from.  .  .  .  You'll  excuse  me,  I  know.  You  see 
how  busy  I  am  this  morning.  Come  in  again  when 
you've  got  anything  particular  you'd  like  to  show.  I 
shall  be  glad  to  see  it.  Good  morning." 

Carey  was  out  in  the  waiting  room,  in  the  hall,  on  the 
elevator,  down  on  the  street,  before  he  realised  how 
much  he  had  depended  on  this  interview.  He  stood  at 
the  curbing,  his  portfolio  under  his  arm,  and  wondered 
what  he  should  do  next.  He  saw  that  he  had  happened 
in  at  an  unfortunate  time,  when  Sherman  was  particu 
larly  busy,  and  also  that  his  use  of  the  words  "short  cut" 
had  been  misunderstood.  He  determined  he  would  go  to 
see  Sherman  again  in  about  a  week  and,  even  if  he  re 
ceived  no  more  welcome  reception,  he  would  at  least 
correct  the  wrong  impression  he  felt  he  had  made. 

He  had  not  looked  up  the  location  of  any  of  the  maga 
zines,  but  he  knew  where  the  Occident  Company  was. 
He  turned  down  toward  Union  Square.  At  the  first 


80  THE  AMATEUR 


news  stand  he  came  to,  he  wrote  down  half  a  dozen  of 
the  addresses  of  other  periodicals. 

The  Occident  Company  for  many  years  had  occupied 
the  same  quarters  on  the  top  floors  of  an  old  brick  build 
ing  on  the  north  side  of  the  Square.  It  was  a  great 
publishing  house;  its  books  and  magazines  were  con 
sidered  to  be  the  finest  examples  of  the  printer's  and  en 
graver's  art.  There  was  a  venerable  dignity  about  its 
offices  of  which  Carey  was  aware  while  he  was  yet  in 
the  walnut-finished,  many-mirrored  elevator  that  bumped 
its  way  from  side  to  side  of  the  narrow  shaft  as  it  slowly 
and  shakily  ascended.  A  great  many  original  drawings 
in  black  frames  covered  the  high  walls  of  the  reception 
room.  A  round  table  on  which  were  arranged  the  latest 
issues  of  the  Occident  Company's  magazines,  stood  in  the 
middle ;  chairs  and  settees  lined  three  sides  of  the  room, 
their  backs  set  stiffly  against  the  walls.  The  fourth  side 
was  given  over  to  the  accounting  department;  its  high 
wooden  partition  cut  off  much  of  the  light  and  gave  the 
impression  of  having  yearly  encroached  upon  the  space 
allotted  to  the  waiting  minutes  of  callers,  agents,  visitors, 
and  applicants.  This  partition  was  pierced  by  three  win 
dows  fitted  with  gates  of  shining  brass  rods  and  above 
them  appeared  neatly-lettered  brass  plates:  "Cashier," 
"Bills,"  "Mail."  Frosted  panels  of  glass  alternated  with 
these  grilled  windows,  permitting  light  to  come  through 
to  the  rest  of  the  room,  and  bearing  across  their  clouded 
surfaces,  the  name :  Occident  Company. 

Carey  turned  interestedly  to  examine  the  original 
drawings.  His  breast  rose  in  long  breaths  of  admiration 
as  he  studied  them.  Here  was  Art  he  could  appreciate ! 
They  were  some  of  the  finest  illustrations  he  had  seen. 
He  was  peering  close  at  a  large  pastel  by  Herbert  Archers 
noting  the  predominating  long  lines  in  the  artist's 


THE  AMATEUR  81 


method  of  work,  when  the  Art  Editor  came  out  from 
behind  the  Accounting  Department,  and  spoke  his  name, 
giving  it  the  inflection  of  an  interrogation. 

He  was  a  man  about  sixty  years  of  age,  tall  and  thin, 
with  white  hair  and  a  sparse  white  beard ;  his  complexion 
was  pink  like  a  woman's,-  the  cheeks  shot  through  with 
tiny  veins  of  bright  vermillion.  His  lips  were  red  and 
when  he  spoke  he  showed  many  teeth  which  appeared 
to  fill  his  mouth.  His  eyes  behind  his  glasses  were  bright 
and  pleasant,  alert  and  interested.  He  nodded  invitingly 
at  Carey,  winking  rapidly,  his  teeth  glistening  between  his 
red  lips. 

It  was  with  a  manner  long  used  to  the  experience, 
however,  that  he  picked  up  the  artist's  proofs  and  ran 
through  them  with  quick,  nervous  movements  of  his 
hands,  occasionally  murmuring:  "U-um," — "Un-hun." 
When  he  finished  looking  them  over,  he  turned  to  Carey, 
his  red  lips  forming  the  smile  that  Carey  knew  he  as 
sumed  when  he  dismissed  the  artists  who  failed  to  inter 
est  him. 

"There's  nothing  here  just  in  our  line.  We  cannot  use 
this  kind  of  work,  excellent  as  it  is.  Thank  you  very 
much  for  coming  in  and  letting  us  have  a  look  at  it. 
Good  morning,  Mr. — Mr. — er — Williams — good  morn 
ing." 

The  offices  of  a  popular  monthly  were  close  by.  Carey 
found  himself  presently  waiting  his  turn  with  two  other 
artists  to  see  its  Art  Editor.  The  three  of  them  had  ar 
rived  almost  simultaneously.  The  others  were  begin 
ners  like  himself,  but  probably  of  less  experience, — ob 
viously  straight  from  the  Art  Students  League. 

The  Art  Editor  was  too  busy  to  see  any  one  just  at  that 
moment.  His  assistant — a  young  man  about  Carey's 
own  age — came  to  them  and  looked  at  the  work.  They 


82  THE  AMATEUR 


opened  their  portfolios  together,  and  the  assistant  began 
to  scrutinise  each  drawing  and  proof  closely,  holding  it 
to  the  light,  squinting  his  eyes,  examining  the  larger  orig 
inals  through  a  reducing  glass.  Carey's  proofs  were  in 
spected  last.  The  other  artists  left  "their  names  and 
addresses  in  case  something  that  might  interest  them 
should  turn  up" — and  departed.  Carey's  work  took  a 
long  time  to  be  examined.  He  was  beginning  to  hope 
that  the  Editor  was  really  interested.  The  prize  poster 
for  the  State  Fair  was  the  last  proof  in  the  portfolio. 
Carey,  a  long  time  ago,  had  had  a  mat  put  around  it; 
the  edges  were  bound  in  black  tape.  It  had  been  litho 
graphed  and  printed  in  nine  colours.  It  represented  a 
girl,  with  a  sun-bonnet  falling  back  upon  her  shoulders, 
gathering  wild  flowers  in  an  open  field,  the  silhouette  of 
Carey's  native  city  in  the  background,  the  outlines  of  its 
spires,  towers  and  office  buildings  picked  out  in  grey 
against  a  brilliant  blue  sky. 

The  Editor  studied  it  carefully.  So  far,  he  had  made 
no  comment ;  now  he  turned  to  Carey  and  said : 

"This  is  an  interesting  colour  scheme.  I  like  it  the 
best  of  what  you  have  to  show.  The  drawing  of  the 
girl's  arm  there  is  a  little  faulty,  and  I'm  'fraid  you 
haven't  done  very  much  work  for  reproduction, — have 
you?  It  would  be  impossible  to  retain  the  values  you 
have  in  this  painting  if  it  were  reproduced." 

Carey  looked  at  him  perplexed.  At  first  he  thought 
he  had  not  understood  correctly.  It  was  impossible  to 
believe  that  this  magazine  man  did  not  recognise  a  litho 
graph  proof!  For  a  moment  he  was  at  a  loss  to  know 
what  to  say. 

"This — this  is  a  reproduction !"  he  stammered.  "The 
original  painting  is  at  home — it's  in  the  State  Capitol 


THE  AMATEUR  83 


back  home.  This  is  only  a  proof.  It  was  litho 
graphed — "  he  stopped,  confused. 

The  other,  by  a  quick  movement,  brought  the  poster 
nearer  the  window  light  and  passed  his  fingers  over  its 
surface.  Carey  saw  the  blood  beginning  slowly  to  mount 
into  his  cheeks.  He  felt  extremely  sorry  for  him.  He 
realised  at  once  that  this  young  editor  knew  nothing  of 
either  art  or  reproduction,  and  that  part  of  his  duty  in 
that  office  was  merely  to  see  unknown  artists  as  they 
came  in  and  save  his  superior  that  annoyance.  Carey, 
at  the  moment,  would  gladly  have  saved  him  the  mor 
tification  of  the  discovery,  had  he  been  able. 

"There's  a  bad  light  there,"  the  Editor  said.  "I  see 
you're  right.  I  thought  it  was  an  oil  painting."  He  be 
gan  to  laugh  nervously. 

"Oh,  that's  an  easy  mistake  to  make,"  Carey  hastened 
to  say.  "The  reproduction's  better  than  the  original. 
The  colours  are  more  evenly  laid  in  the  proof.  Of  course 
I  like  process  work  better  for  this  kind  of  thing." 

"We  only  use  four-colour  reproduction  here,"  the  other 
began,  hesitatingly. 

Carey  looked  at  him  curiously, — almost  hopelessly. 
There  was,  he  saw  at  a  glance,  no  need  of  his  wasting 
more  of  this  man's  time  or  of  his  own.  It  was  like  try 
ing  to  carry  on  a  conversation  in  Latin  with  a  Lap 
lander. 

But  how  could  the  Art  Editor  or  the  Editor-in-Chief 
of  that  magazine  afford  to  take  such  chances?  Carey 
asked  himself  as  he  walked  angrily  down  the  street  a  few 
minutes  later.  A  genius  might  some  day  drop  in,  proofs 
in  hand,  asking  for  a  manuscript  to  illustrate.  Was  it 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  this  college  youth,  who  didn't 
know  that  four-colour  reproduction  was  identical  with 
process  work,  could  recognise  the  earmarks  of  the  genius? 


84  THE  AMATEUR 


How  many  a  great  artist's  earliest  work  was  crude  and 
all  but  hopeless  ?  Some  one  must  have  recognised  his  pos 
sibilities  and  given  him  a  chance,  some  one  with  a  trained 
eye;  not  this  Bachelor  of  Arts  who  had  picked  up  a  few 
phrases  like  "values"  and  "four-colour  work"  and  used 
them  glibly  to  cover  up  his  ignorance!  How  was  he  to 
tell  Carey — or  any  one — -that  this  arm  was  faulty  or  that 
drawing  bad !  The  Art  Editor,  if  he  did  his  work  with 
anything  approaching  to  adequacy,  must  know  that  this 
individual,  whom  he  sent  out  to  represent  himself  and  his 
magazine,  knew  nothing  about  Art.  Much  better  would 
it  be  to  send  word  that  he  was  busy  and  callers  must 
come  again.  It  was  the  unfairness  to  artists  that  most 
incensed  Carey.  Those  students  from  the  Art  League 
might  have  some  very  promising  stuff.  They  were  turned 
away,  allowed  to  believe  that  it  was  not  good  enough  to 
awaken  the  slightest  interest — at  least  in  the  Assistant 
Art  Editor  of  one  of  the  most  successful  and  influential 
monthlies.  If  all  the  magazines  did  that:  the  beginner 
would  never  be  given  a  chance.  Carey's  jaw  stiffened, 
and  in  his  mind's  eye  he  saw  the  day  when  that  particu 
lar  magazine  would  beg  him  to  illustrate  its  next  serial ! 
When  he  got  back  to  the  boarding  house,  lunch  was 
almost  over.  Carey  ate  it  in  silence,  refusing  to  allow 
his  mind  to  dwell  on  the  disappointments  of  the  morning. 
He  lay  down  on  the  bed  in  his  room  afterwards,  and  in 
a  few  moments  was  fast  asleep.  When  he  awoke  it  was 
nearly  four  o'clock. 

The  next  day  he  started  out  again.  He  planned  his 
itinerary  with  greater  care.  Starting  in  at  Forty-second 
Street,  he  worked  down  town.  In  the  course  of  the  day 
he  visited  eleven  magazine  offices.  At  not  one  of  them 
did  he  get  the  least  encouragement. 


THE  AMATEUR  85 


He  found  the  men  who  saw  him — twice  women  looked 
at  his  proofs — of  varying  types.  In  the  office  of  Over 
man's  Magazine,  the  Art  Editor  was  brusque  to  the  point 
of  rudeness.  When  Carey  was  shown  into  his  office,  he 
was  busy  writing.  He  threw  him  a  brief  glance  and  said 
over  his  shoulder: 

"Stick  your  proofs  around  the  room — anywhere,  so  I 
can  see  'em." 

Carey  arranged  them  to  the  best  advantage  possible, 
propping  them  against  the  books  on  the  desk,  on  the  top 
of  the  radiator,  and  slipping  them  into  the  crack  between 
the  wainscoting  and  the  wall.  The  Art  Editor  did  not 
look  up  until  the  letter  he  was  writing  was  completed  and 
thrust  into  an  envelope.  Then,  as  he  licked  the  flap,  he 
whirled  about  and,  after  running  his  eye  over  a  few  of 
the  proofs,  said: 

"We  can't  use  stuff  like  that.  Buy  a  copy  of  Over 
man's  Magazine  and  study  the  pictures.  And  don't  come 
again  unless  you're  sure  we'll  be  interested." 

Carey  also  met  the  ultra-refined,  elegantly  attired  Art 
Editor  of  East  and  West,  with  immaculate  linen  and  ex 
quisite  manner,  who,  after  examining  his  work  rather 
casually,  said :  "Not  interested,"  and,  turning,  passed 
through  the  swing  door  to  the  inner  offices,  leaving  Carey 
humiliated  and  raging. 

Even  when  courteously  treated,  he  was  conscious  that 
the  time  it  took  to  look  at  what  he  had  to  show  was 
begrudged.  Perhaps  the  most  interesting  call  was  at  the 
office  of  Stapleton's.  The  Art  Editor  was  the  dean  of 
his  profession  in  the  publishing  business.  Carey  had 
heard  of  Ben  Mercy  ever  since  he  went  to  Art  School. 
No  one  could  have  been  more  friendly  and  pleasant,  al 
though  Carey  could  see  he  was  not  interested  in  his  work. 
He  did  not  even  ask  him  to  leave  his  address :  but  for  this 


86  THE  AMATEUR 


Carey  was  grateful.  Most  of  the  visit  was  taken  up  in  a 
discussion  of  a  painting  that  had  just  been  delivered  by 
the  well-known  marine  artist,  Henry  Reuter.  It  was  a 
large  canvas,  and  rested  on  the  floor  and  against  a  table 
close  to  Ben  Mercy's  large  glass-topped  desk.  The  pic 
ture  represented  a  great  battleship  standing  in  the  teeth 
of  a  fierce  storm.  The  colour  was  all  dull  blues  and  greys 
and  muddy  greens;  most  of  it  had  been  laid  on  with  a 
palette  knife.  The  whole  composition  was  intensely 
dramatic,  the  effects  astonishingly  obtained.  Ben  Mercy 
was  amused  at  Carey's  enthusiasm. 

The  pleasant  warmth  of  this  visit  stayed  with  Carey 
all  day.  It  kept  him  cheered  and  undismayed  through  the 
long  succession  of  disappointments.  His  round  ended 
at  the  offices  of  Mirth,  where  he  was  told  he  might  leave 
his  proofs  for  the  Art  Editor  to  look  over,  but  it  was 
against  the  rules  of  this  individual  ever  to  meet  personally 
those  soliciting  work.  Carey  left  his  portfolio  and  called 
for  it  again  the  following  morning,  when  it  was  handed 
over  to  him  "with  the  thanks  of  the  Art  Editor  for  the 
privilege  of  seeing  it." 

The  next  day  was  as  unfruitful  as  the  preceding  two. 
Carey  directed  most  of  his  efforts,  on  this  third  attempt, 
to  the  publishing  houses.  But  they  were  even  more  dis 
couraging  than  the  magazines  had  been.  He  was  kept 
waiting  for  endless  lengths  of  time  by  the  individuals 
who  gave  out  the  books  to  be  illustrated,  and  in  two  cases 
out  of  three  he  was  told  that  there  was  nothing  on  hand 
just  at  the  moment  and  that  there  was  very  little  work 
to  be  given  out  at  that  time  of  the  year. 

His  next  attempt  was  made  in  the  direction  of  the 
Advertising  Agencies.  Jerry  Hart  had  a  cousin  who  was 
a  copy  writer  at  the  Frank  Peabody  Company.  Carey 
went  to  see  him  and  got  a  list  of  the  Agencies  and  the 


THE  AMATEUR  87 


right  men  to  ask  for.  He  saw  that  he  must  apply  the 
same  tactics  with  the  magazines.  To  ask  simply  for  "the 
Art  Editor"  was  to  proclaim  oneself  a  novice  and  a  tyro. 
To  enquire  for  the  Art  Editor  by  name  was  more  dig 
nified  and  commanded  attention. 

He  was  not  sure  whether  he  imagined  it,  or  whether 
he  was  becoming  hardened  to  the  business  of  soliciting 
work,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  Art  Managers  of  the 
Advertising  Agencies  were  pleasanter  and  more  courte 
ous  than  the  Art  Editors  of  the  magazines.  Certainly 
they  knew  their  business  better.  Without  exception,  they 
took  his  name  and  address — and  took  it  in  a  way  that 
impressed  Carey  that  some  day  they  might  actually  have 
recourse  to  it.  Also  they  asked  him  to  call  again,  and 
their  invitations  sounded  sincere.  But,  with  equal  una 
nimity,  they  told  him  that  this  was  the  dullest  time  of 
the  year  and  there  was  practically  no  work  that  their 
own  staff  of  artists  could  not  handle. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  week,  Saturday,  a  little  before 
one  o'clock,  Carey  stumbled  into  the  offices  of  Marks  and 
Heineman,  one  of  the  smaller  advertising  agencies.  He 
was  told  the  Advertising  Manager  would  see  him  im 
mediately.  He  found  him,  a  little,  short,  nervous,  wild- 
eyed  young  Jew,  surrounded  by  three  of  his  staff,  his 
desk  and  room  a  bewildering  confusion  of  disorder. 

They  were  all  waiting  impatiently  for  Carey's  entrance. 
He  had  no  sooner  stepped  into  the  doorway  than  the  little 
Jew  began  to  shout  to  him : 

"Say — yer're  an  artist?  Yer  ev'  draw  flowers?  See 
here.  Yer  see  that  layout;  I  must  have  a  pen  and  ink 
drawing  of  those  flowers  and  roses — by  Monday — nine 
o'clock.  Yer  understand  what's  wanted?  Copy  that 
photograph  and  the  cover  of  this  florist's  catalogue — so. 
I've  made  this  sketch  the  way  I  want  'em.  Put  the  roses 


88  THE  AMATEUR 


up  in  the  corner  and  the  rest  down  below ;  the  type  goes 
in  here.  D'  yer  think  yer  c'  do  it?  Yer've  done  work 
like  that  before  ?" 

Carey  took  up  the  rough  pencil  sketch,  glanced  at  the 
catalogue  and  photograph  and  nodded. 

"Well — yer  have  the  drawing  here  Monday  morning — 
nine  o'clock.  What's  yer  name?  Write  it  down  here, 
and  yer  address.  If  yer  work's  good,  I'll  have  more 
for  yer." 

On  his  way  home,  Carey  was  amused  by  the  thought 
that  his  first  commission  in  New  York  had  been  given 
him,  not  on  the  strength  of  his  work — samples  of  which 
he  had  not  even  been  asked  to  show — but  on  his  having 
opportunely  dropped  in  at  that  particular  office  at  a  mo 
ment  when  the  Art  Manager  was  at  a  loss  to  know 
how  he  was  going  to  get  a  pen-and-ink  drawing  executed 
over  Sunday! 


CHAPTER   VI 


AREY  delivered  the  drawing  of  the  flowers  at  nine 
o'clock  the  following  Monday  morning.  The 
young  Jew  was  in  a  much  less  agitated  state  of  mind. 
He  made  no  comment,  either  regarding  Carey's  prompt 
ness  or  the  quality  of  the  sketch.  He  glanced  at  it, 
marked  the  size  of  the  reduction,  and  wrote  with  a  thick 
blue  pencil  at  the  bottom  of  the  card :  "Cut  due  at  3 
p.  m."  He  called  a  boy  and  instructed  him  to  "hustle  it 
over  to  the  engravers."  Then  he  drew  a  voucher  for  five 
dollars,  handed  it  to  Carey  with  the  information  that  he 
could  get  his  money  at  the  cashier's  window  on  his  way 
out,  and  turned  to  other  work  as  though  the  incident  was 
finished.  But  Carey  lingered,  and  presently  the  other 
looked  up. 

"You  said  there  might  be  other  work?"  Carey  began. 

"Oh — hum!"  The  Jew  began  to  rub  his  chin  reflec 
tively.  "Got  any  yer  stuff  with  yer?"  he  asked. 

Carey  explained  that  he  had  brought  it  on  Saturday, 
but  that  no  one  had  asked  to  see  it,  and  he  had  presumed 
that  it  wasn't  of  interest. 

The  Jew  continued  to  rub  his  chin. 

"C'n  yer  do  monograms?"  he  asked.  "Here,  I  tell  yer 
what  to  do."  He  caught  up  a  blank  envelope  and  wrote 

89 


90  THE  AMATEUR 


down  several  letters  of  the  alphabet,  drawing  circles 
about  groups  of  twos  and  threes  of  them. 

"Yer  come  to-morrow  morning  an'  show  me  what  kind 
of  monograms  yer  c'  make  out  of  'em.  They're  for  cig 
arettes — yer  understand?  Got  ter  be  snappy  and  smart 
— but  neat.  If  yer're  any  good — I'll  give  yer  a  job. 
Come  to-morrow,  before  ten  o'clock." 

There  were  nine  monograms  to  be  made.  Carey 
worked  on  them  all  day,  and  made  nearly  three  times  that 
number,  working  out  several  arrangements  of  the  same 
groups.  He  wondered,  as  he  bent  over  his  drawing 
board,  at  his  point  of  view  which  had  so  changed  in  less 
than  a  week's  time.  A  few  days  ago,  he  would  have 
sneered  at  any  one  suggesting  his  doing  such  trivial  work 
as  designing  monograms.  Now  he  was  glad  of  the 
chance.  New  York  had  made  the  difference.  He  knew 
it  wasn't  himself,  or  the  men  he  had  called  upon,  or  his 
lack  of  experience  or  ability.  It  was  the  grip  of  the  City. 
The  Thing  that  roared  and  swirled  about  him — the  Thing 
of  which  he  had  the  temerity  to  wish  to  become  a  part — 
reached  first  at  such  as  he  to  fling  aside,  to  trample  under 
foot.  Carey  saw,  however,  that,  in  his  very  ability  to  rec 
ognise  that  it  was  the  relentless  and  remorseless  City  it 
self  that  he  fought  and  not  the  individual  men  and  im 
mediate  conditions  that  met  and  confronted  him,  lay  his 
hope  of  eventually  winning  success  and  controlling  the 
great  force  that  now  was  so  eager  to  destroy  him.  These 
men  were  the  City's  creatures.  It  made  them  what  they 
were.  In  that  brief  flash  of  clear  seeing,  Carey  found  the 
courage  and  the  strength  that  carried  him  through  that 
first  hot,  baking  summer  and  through  the  years  that  fol 
lowed.  Not  until  he  was  an  older  man  did  he  come  to  see 
that  this  same  idea  was  the  key  to  the  understanding  of 
all  life. 


THE  AMATEUR  91 


Carey  was  put  on  the  regular  pay  roll  of  Marks  and 
Heineman  at  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  For  this  he  was  ex 
pected  to  design  from  ten  to  twenty  monograms  a  day. 
It  was  hard  work  at  first ;  but,  at  the  end  of  a  month,  he 
grew  astonishingly  proficient  in  their  execution,  and 
often  did  his  work  in  the  evening  after  he  had  spent  the 
day  idling  with  Jerry  Hart.  With  the  feeling  a  perma 
nent  income  gave  him,  Carey  allowed  what  remained  of 
Joe  Downer's  two-hundred-dollar  loan  to  slip  through  his 
fingers  in  trifling  extravagancies,  until  it  was  entirely  dis 
sipated.  This  did  not  worry  him,  as  he  knew  Joe  wasn't 
in  need  of  it  and  had  lent  him  the  money  on  the  under 
standing  that  two  years  might  elapse  before  it  was  repaid. 

His  first  summer  in  New  York  was  a  great  enjoyment 
to  Carey.  He  settled  down  to  a  routine  that  involved 
nothing  exacting  or  distasteful.  Marks  and  Heineman 
were  entirely  satisfied  with  his  monograms.  Only  once 
was  he  requested  to  make  one  of  his  designs  over  again. 
Ackerman,  the  young  Jew  who  was  in  charge  of  the  Art 
Department,  became  friendly  with  Carey,  but  it  never 
occurred  to  him  to  suggest  another  kind  of  work.  After 
a  few  weeks,  Carey  began  to  mail  his  designs  in  to  the 
Advertising  Agency  and  to  receive  his  orders  by  mail  in 
return.  Every  Monday  morning  the  post  brought  him 
his  check  for  fifteen  dollars,  and  after  Mrs.  Fillmore  had 
claimed  her  due,  this  left  a  sufficiently  small  balance  to 
make  the  spending  of  it  an  interesting  and  exhilarating 
weekly  experience. 

Carey's  amusements  were  not  of  a  vicious  order. 
Women  played  no  part  in  his  scheme  of  pleasure.  Even 
if  his  income  had  permitted  it,  he  was  singularly  clean- 
minded,  though  he  had  no  particular  moral  convictions 
on  such  matters.  Occasionally  he  and  Jerry  Hart  dropped 
in  at  the  famous  dance-hall,  the  Haymarket,  late  in  the 


92  THE  AMATEUR 


evening,  for  the  sheer  social  pleasure  of  talking  to  girls 
of  approximately  their  own  ages.  They  danced  with 
those  they  found  there  and  bought  them  drinks.  Some 
times  Carey  came  home  alone,  but  not  often. 

Coney  Island  was  the  place  they  frequented  most.  Al 
most  every  day  that  Jerry  Hart  could  steal  from  his 
work,  without  his  employers  knowing  it,  found  the  two 
of  them  at  the  Bridge  scrambling  on  board  a  train  marked 
for  Coney  Island.  Immediately  upon  arriving  there  was 
a  rush  to  get  into  bathing  suits ;  and  then  followed  long 
hours  upon  the  hot  sands,  smoking  cigarettes  preserved 
in  a  tin  candy  box  they  carried  with  them  from  the  bath 
house,  meeting  confidence  with  confidence,  maintaining 
a  keen  rivalry  in  the  darkening  tan  on  arms  and  legs. 
Neither  of  them  could  swim,  but  they  both  loved  the 
water  and  enjoyed  ball  playing  and  sprints  along  the  wet 
sand.  Invariably  they  ate  too  many  peanuts  and  pop 
corn  crisps,  and  came  home  on  the  crowded,  hot,  glaring 
trains,  utterly  fatigued  and  with  a  heavy  sense  of  out 
raged  digestions. 

With  French  and  McNeil,  Carey  found  much  diversion 
in  protracted  arguments  on  such  subjects  as  college  edu 
cation,  Tammany,  a  sermon  by  Dr.  Parkhurst,  women's 
fashions,  intemperance,  marriage,  football,  Roosevelt,  the 
newly-opened  subway,  any  topic  that  might,  in  an  idle 
conversation,  be  casually  mentioned.  Often,  after  din 
ner,  Carey  would  turn  into  their  room  as  they  reached 
the  top  landing  together,  and  drop  into  one  of  the  Mor 
ris  chairs  with  the  intention  of  staying  just  long  enough 
to  finish  his  cigarette.  His  monograms  for  the  day  might 
be  but  half  completed,  and  idling  then  would  mean  work 
ing  late  into  the  night  or  rising  early  in  the  morning. 
But  ten  o'clock  would  find  French  sprawled  diagonally 
on  the  bed,  waving  his  cigarette  at  the  ceiling  and  vehe- 


THE  AMATEUR  93 


mently  asserting  that  Henry  George's  ideas  of  taxation 
were  the  only  tenable  ones  that  "a  sane,  intelligent,  think 
ing  man  could  possibly  entertain."  McNeil  was  the  arbi 
ter  in  these  discussions.  He  sat  in  the  other  Morris 
chair  by  the  open  window,  puffing  placidly  on  a  strongly- 
smelling  black  briar,  maintaining  a  noncommittal  atti 
tude,  gratified  and  pleased  when  the  others  deferred  to 
him.  Carey  felt  himself  often  beyond  his  depth  in  these 
discussions,  for  French  was  an  astonishingly  well-in 
formed  person,  had  read  generously,  and  had  thought 
about  the  things  he  read.  He  had  an  irritating,  dogmatic 
way  of  expressing  himself,  and  Carey  would  be  drawn 
into  an  argument  with  him,  annoyed  by  the  finality  of  his 
tone.  It  was  all  very  pleasant  and  stimulating,  and  Carey 
grew  to  look  forward  to  these  talks. 

Repeatedly,  in  the  middle  of  their  argument,  Jerry 
Hart  would  burst  into  the  room  with  the  information 
that  they  were  missing  something.  This  was  always  the 
signal  to  turn  out  the  light  hastily  and  gather  at  the 
window  to  spy  upon  some  unconscious  female  in  one  of 
the  houses  that  abutted  on  the  rear,  during  the  process, 
leisurely  pursued,  of  going  to  bed.  Presently,  if  he  were 
in,  Doctor  Floherty  would  be  summoned,  and  Jerry 
would  stamp  upon  the  floor  to  attract  the  attention  of 
Washburn  in  the  room  below.  These  observations  never 
resulted  in  any  satisfaction  to  the  observers,  for  the 
shade  was  either  discreetly  drawn  or  the  light  prema 
turely  extinguished. 

Carey  was  always  annoyed  at  these  interruptions.  He 
called  Jerry  a  "Peeping  Tom,"  and  asserted  that  the  spy 
ing  was  a  senseless  and  useless  waste  of  time.  He  as 
sumed  an  attitude  of  indifference  and  refused  to  be  a 
party  to  the  others'  unworthy  curiosity ;  but  an  exclama 
tion  from  Jerry  or  a  general  laugh  at  some  amusing  ac- 


94  THE  AMATEUR 


tion  on  the  part  of  the  unconsciously  observed  always 
drew  him  to  the  window  eventually. 

With  "Doc"  Floherty  and  Durrant,  and  sometimes 
Jerry  Hart,  Carey  frequently  went  out  to  Van  Cort- 
landt  Park  to  play  golf.  He  and  Jerry  were  beginners  at 
the  game;  but  Carey  enjoyed  the  exercise  and  the  good 
fellowship,  although  he  never  achieved  sufficient  pro 
ficiency  to  feel  the  fascination  necessary  to  becoming  a 
good  player. 

On  the  night  preceding  such  a  trip  to  Van  Cortlandt 
Park,  Mrs.  Fillmore  would  leave  a  pile  of  bread-and- 
butter  sandwiches  and  a  large  bowl  of  peanuts  in  the 
middle  of  the  dining-room  table  and  a  quart  of  cold 
mixed  coffee  in  the  ice  chest.  At  a  little  after  five  the 
next  morning,  three,  or  sometimes  four,  shadowy  shapes 
groped  their  way  down  the  stairs,  still  stiff  and  yawning, 
and  Durrant,  who  assumed  the  management  and  direc 
tion  of  these  expeditions,  would  reclaim  the  quart  of 
coffee  from  its  cold  storage  and  heat  it  up  in  a  sauce 
pan  over  the  gas  stove.  Carey  always  remembered  these 
mornings.  At  that  hour  he  bitterly  regretted  having 
agreed  to  be  a  member  of  the  party.  Durrant  was 
usually  cross  and  silent.  Jerry,  angry  at  having  been 
dragged  forcibly  from  his  bed,  cursed  himself  and  the 
others  individually  and  collectively.  "Doc"  Floherty, 
who  had  risen  half  an  hour  earlier  than  the  rest  for  his 
cold  bath,  was  irritatingly  brisk  and  buoyant.  The  bread 
of  the  sandwiches,  grown  stale  in  the  night,  had  begun  to 
harden  and  curl  at  the  edges,  and,  when  the  gas  in  the 
kitchen  was  lit,  an  army  of  black  water  bugs  and  cock 
roaches  scuttled  for  the  cracks  and  chinks  in  the  floor 
and  wainscoting. 

Half  an  hour  later,  on  the  elevated  train,  their  spirits 


THE  AMATEUR  95 


would  rise,  and  the  Doctor  usually  started  them  all  laugh 
ing  with  an  imitation  of  Durrant's  scowl  and  muttering 
as  he  tinkered  with  the  gas  stove,  persuading  it  to  burn 
properly,  while  Jerry  and  Carey  quarrelled  over  the  sand 
wiches  and  peanuts  in  the  dining  room.  At  One  Hun 
dred  and  Fifty-fifth  Street,  they  caught  the  train  that  left 
for  Yonkers  at  six- thirty — the  first  train  out  of  a  Sunday 
morning — and  by  seven  o'clock  they  were  teeing  off  for 
the  first  hole,  the  course  rolling  out  below  them,  dew 
sparkling  on  the  cobweb-covered  grass,  the  birds  deliri 
ously  singing,  the  sun  warm  and  pleasant,  the  whole 
world  verdant  and  enchanting. 

Toward  ten  o'clock,  the  course  became  congested  with 
the  golfers  that  arrived  every  half  hour  by  the  train- 
load;  but,  on  the  first  round  of  eighteen  holes,  Carey  and 
his  friends  practically  had  the  course  to  themselves,  play 
ing  ahead  of  the  rest. 

There  was  a  certain  moment  on  these  days  that  Carey 
always  afterward  remembered  with  a  sigh  of  satisfac 
tion.  Just  across  the  road  from  the  eighteenth  hole  there 
was  a  little  sodawater  and  dairy  establishment  where  one 
could  drink  glass  after  glass  of  the  most  refreshing  and 
delicious  milk.  After  he  had  put  down  the  numeral  7  or 
8  on  his  score  card  and  added  up  the  eighteen  entries  to 
gaze  ruefully  at  the  distressing  total,  there  would  come 
suddenly  a  realisation  of  how  hot  and  tired  he  was. 
Then  it  was  that  the  thought  of  that  wonderful  milk 
awaiting  him  in  the  little  dairy  gave  him  a  delicious 
promise  of  refreshment.  He  never  forgot  the  anticipa 
tion  of  these  moments,  or  the  wonderful  feeling  of  satis 
faction  that  followed  them.  On  the  high  turn-stools 
against  the  counter,  Durrant  and  the  Doc  discussed  the 
latter's  successful  mid-iron  shot  to  the  sixth  green,  or 
the  former's  difficulties  in  the  brook  between  the  tenth 


96  THE  AMATEUR 


and  eleventh  holes, — while  Jerry  idly  flirted  with  the  girl 
behind  the  counter  and  Carey  drank  one  glass  of  milk 
after  another. 

They  were  happy  days,  free  from  responsibility,  lulling 
the  desire  for  achievement. 


CHAPTER    VII 


WITH  the  early  fall,  a  subtle  change  in  the  character 
of  the  city  became  evident  to  Carey.  As  he  ex 
pressed  it  one  evening  at  the  dinner  table,  "things  seemed 
to  have  begun  to  hum."  Blanchard  pushed  back  his  chair 
and  lit  the  cigar  he  had  begged  from  Durrant. 

"Young  man,"  he  said,  "what  you  observe  is  the  return 
of  the  people.  In  June  the  annual  hegira  begins — the 
exodus  to  the  country.  In  September  the  populace  re 
turns  to  its  home.  The  week  prior  to  the  opening  of 
the  public  schools,  three  hundred  thousand  people  enter 
New  York  City  daily  ..." 

"Come,  come,  Blanchard,"  interrupted  Doctor  Flo- 
herty,  "that  would  mean  over  two  million  people  coming 
back  to  the  city  during  that  week.  The  transportation 
facilities  here  could  not  possibly  handle  that  number." 

"Well,  sir,  you  may  be  an  authority  on  serums  and 
bacilli,  but  I  have  lived  in  this  town  for  nigh  onto  sixty 
years." 

A  long  argument  followed,  which  eventually  involved 
both  Charley  Fillmore  and  Durrant,  and  when  Carey  and 
Jerry  Hart  slipped  away  upstairs,  the  raised  voices  fol 
lowed  them  to  the  top  floor. 

But  Carey  recognised  that  the  town  was  filling  up,  no 
matter  what  the  rate  per  day  might  be.  The  sidewalks 

97 


98  THE  AMATEUR 


were  more  crowded,  the  traffic  in  the  streets  was  more 
congested.  Somehow,  a  look  of  eagerness,  of  wary  ex 
pectation,  came  into  the  faces  of  the  people  one  passed 
upon  the  streets.  Men  and  women  alike  seemed  to  be 
preparing  themselves  for  the  struggle  of  the  winter  be 
fore  them. 

The  boy  was  so  impressed  with  this  idea  that  he  de 
cided  to  draw  a  cartoon  about  it.  He  intended  to  call  it 
The  Rush  and  Bustle  of  the  City's  Mart.  He  worked 
feverishly  for  two  days,  and  then,  because  a  woman's 
figure  in  the  foreground  would  not  come  right,  suddenly 
lost  interest  and  turned  its  face  to  the  wall  with  other 
unfinished  work. 

A  pastel  sketch  of  Jerry  Hart  he  attempted  one  even 
ing,  however,  proved  more  successful.  It  did  not  take 
him  over  an  hour  to  finish,  and  he  felt  when  it  was  com 
pleted  that  he  really  had  done  an  excellent  bit  of  draw 
ing.  He  had  caught  Jerry's  whimsical  smile  and  the  hint 
of  fun  in  his  eyes,  and  the  work  itself  was  free,  devoid 
of  that  rigidity  and  tightness  which  he  knew  was  his 
greatest  weakness. 

He  tried  to  make  a  sketch  of  himself  after  this.  A 
combination  of  mirrors  secured  for  him  a  half  profile  of 
his  own  face,  but  the  result  was  not  good.  He  failed  to 
catch  an  expression,  and  the  fairness  of  his  hair  and  his 
high  colouring  escaped  him  altogether. 

He  went  back  to  his  monograms,  fiercely  assuring  him 
self  that  his  chance  would  come  some  day  and  he'd  "show 
'em."  But  he  did  not  fool  himself  entirely  by  his  blus 
tering.  Deep  down  in  his  own  consciousness  there  lurked 
an  uneasy  conviction  of  shirking.  His  work  assured  him 
of  bed  and  board,  but  Carey  had  not  come  to  New  York 
to  make  monograms  for  Marks  and  Heineman.  That 
should  have  been  only  a  makeshift,  a  temporary  compro- 


THE  AMATEUR  99 


mise.  In  his  heart  he  knew  he  was  drifting  with  what 
ever  current  beset  him. 

The  opening  of  the  theatres  with  the  fall  and  winter 
offerings  proved  a  source  of  absorbing  interest  to  both 
himself  and  Jerry.  They  made  it  a  point  to  go  on  first 
nights,  and,  later,  over  their  beer  at  Scheffcl  Hall,  dis 
cussed  the  players  and  the  play.  The  full  page  of  theat 
rical  advertisements  in  the  Sunday  Herald  was  pored 
over  at  the  breakfast  table  and  long  afterwards.  They 
prided  themselves  on  their  familiarity  with  theatrical 
terms  and  the  glibness  with  which  these  could  be  used. 

"Faversham's  going  to  open  in  Letty  next  week  at 
Wallack's.  I  hear  it's  a  pippin.  Let's  go,"  Carey  would 
say,  glancing  up  from  his  page  of  ads. 

"Right,"  Jerry  would  assent.  "Frank  Daniel's  got  a 
new  show,  I  see,  Sergeant  Blue.  That  girl  Blanch  Ring 
is  in  it.  She's  the  one  that  sings  In  the  Good  Old  Summer 
Time.  She  can  hang  her  hat  up  in  my  house  any  time 
she  likes." 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake!"  Carey  would  exclaim,  "shut  up. 
You  give  me  a  pain.  .  .  .  I'm  crazy  to  see  this  Letty 
show.  It's  by  Pinero,  you  know.  I  saw  a  play  by  him 
once  that  was  the  greatest  thing  I've  ever  seen  in  my 
life.  It's  called  The  Gay  Lord  Quex.  There's  a  girl  in 
it  who  .  .  ." 

Jerry,  at  this  point,  would  fling  aside  his  paper  and, 
assuming  an  attitude  of  devotion,  begin : 

"From  all  inordinate  and  obnoxious  bores,  from  all 
vainglorious  and  conceited  asses,  from  all  recounters  of 
dramatic  plots,  good  Lord  deliver  us." 

"Well,  don't  you  begin  talking  about  favourites  of  the 
stage  falling  hopeless  victims  to  your  irresistible  charms," 
Carey  would  rejoin.  "There's  no  prig  worse  than  that. 
What'll  we  do  this  afternoon?" 


ioo  THE  AMATEUR 


Later  in  October,  just  as  the  trees  had  begun  to  take 
on  their  most  vivid  foliage,  the  two  boys  went  with  the 
Fillmores  and  Anna  Blanchard  on  an  excursion  up  the 
Hudson.  The  affair  was  arranged  by  a  Sunday  School 
Association  to  which  Anna  belonged.  One  of  the  largest 
of  the  river  steamers  had  been  chartered,  and  every 
Episcopal  Sunday  School  in  the  city  sent  its  delegation. 

Carey,  who  was  anxious  to  satisfy  his  artist's  soul 
with  a  view  of  the  Palisades  in  the  autumn,  of  which  he 
had  heard  since  infancy,  was  somewhat  surprised  at 
Jerry's  ready  compliance  with  the  suggestion  from  Anna 
Blanchard  that  they  should  come  along.  Jerry  studi 
ously  avoided  any  social  intercourse  with  the  Fillmores 
and  Carey  aped  his  attitude;  but,  in  his  heart,  he  had 
a  genuine  liking  for  them  all,  with  the  possible  exception 
of  Charley,  whose  frankly  acknowledged  indifference  to 
his  mother's  efforts  to  support  himself,  his  wife  and  chil 
dren  aroused  Carey  to  intense  exasperation.  He  was, 
consequently,  greatly  relieved  when  Charley  failed  to 
meet  them  at  the  Battery  early  on  the  morning  of  the 
excursion.  Charley  had  announced  that  he  would  not 
be  home  the  night  before,  but  had  promised  to  meet  the 
family  at  half-past  eight  the  following  morning.  Carey 
hadn't  a  doubt  that,  somewhere,  he  was  sleeping  off  a 
jag  acquired  during  the  evening's  debauch. 

There  were  nine  in  the  party :  Mrs.  Fillmore  and  Miss 
Watt,  bulging  and  gigantic,  with  hats  and  veils;  Mrs. 
Charley  Fillmore,  with  her  usual  sad  and  tearful  expres 
sion,  one  of  her  scrawny,  straight-haired  little  girls 
grasped  in  either  hand ;  old  Blanchard  maintaining  a  con 
stant  flow  of  comment  to  whomever  would  listen;  his 
daughter  and  the  two  boys. 

Anna  Blanchard  wore  a  yellow  satin  badge  with  long 
silky  fringe,  which  proclaimed  her  to  be  a  "Delegate  of 


THE  AMATEUR  101 


St.  George's  Sunday  School  Teachers  Association." 
Carey,  catching  a  glimpse  of  her  face  as  she  was  talking 
to  Jerry  by  the  boat  rail,  thought  her,,  for  the  first  time, 
pretty.  One  grew  accustomed  :o  ht*r  .disfiguring  nose; 
it  ceased  to  be  noticeable.  -Her  constant  eager  expres 
sion,  her  merry  eyes,  her  readiness-  to  'laugh,  mack:'  ior  a 
certain  likableness  in  her  face  that  gave  it  beauty.  She 
had  a  new  hat  trimmed  with  daisies,  and  her  hair  curled 
prettily  about  her  face,  flushed  with  the  excitement  of 
the  moment.  Her  girlish  figure  was  both  lithe  and 
graceful. 

The  Narragansett  seemed  crowded  to  its  capacity. 
The  day  was  the  last  of  a  late  Indian  summer,  and  the 
white  clothes  of  hot  weather  were  once  more  called  into 
service.  Everywhere  white  shirt  waists  and  white  skirts 
brightened  the  decks  of  the  old  river-boat.  Children 
wormed  their  way  between  their  elders,  calling  to  each 
other,  running  in  the  occasional  vacant  places  on  the  deck, 
colliding  with  the  groups  that  formed  and  dissolved  and 
formed  again.  Forward,  a  great  quantity  of  folding  can 
vas  stools  had  been  piled.  A  mad  scramble  was  in  prog 
ress  about  these,  the  men  struggling  among  themselves 
to  secure  a  sufficient  number  for  the  needs  of  their  parties. 
Every  now  and  then,  a  man  would  pass  along  the 
crowded  deck,  three  or  four  of  these  stools  hooked  by 
each  arm,  crying,  "Excuse  me,  please — kindly  let  me  by, 
please.  Gangway !" 

There  was  a  general  confusion  among  the  passengers 
to  secure  the  desirable  positions  on  board.  Almost  all  the 
women  carried  packages  and  bundles,  and  many  held 
nursing  bottles  in  their  hands,  wrapped  in  strips  of  flan 
nel  to  keep  the  milk  warm.  The  day  promised  later  to  be 
hot;  but,  at  that  hour  in  the  morning,  there  prevailed  a 
soft  haze  over  both  land  and  water.  The  sun  shone 


102  THE  AMATEUR 


murkily  through  this,  a  flat  disc  of  fire-colour  just  over 
the  grey  shadows  of  the  factories  and  office  buildings  of 
Brooklyn.  -  The.  gojcj  .and  brown  of  the  leaves  on  the 
trees  in  /Battery  XPacrk  §»aye  encouraging  promise  of  the 
glories  :qf.4he .  Palisades..  -  *  % 

Suddenly-  the*  air  was*  split  with  the  raucous  snarl  of 
the  Narragansett's  whistle.  At  once  there  arose  from 
many  throats  cries  and  shouts.  "Here  we  go!  We're 
off!  All  ashore  that's  going  ashore!  Hurry!  Good 
bye,  all!  There  she  blows!  Don't  you  wish  it  was 
Europe  ?" 

Simultaneously,  a  brass  band  in  the  stern  burst  out 
with  a  blare  of  horns  and  a  crash  of  cymbals  and  drums. 

Carey,  from  where  he  hung  over  the  rail  with  Jerry, 
looked  down  on  the  group  of  people  standing  below  on 
the  deck,  heard  a  bell  somewhere,  deep  inside  the  old 
steamer.  Immediately,  a  fine  tremor  of  the  rail  tickled  the 
palm  of  his  hand  where  it  rested  upon  it.  Slowly  the 
Narragansett  got  under  way,  her  nose  swinging  out  into 
the  stream,  while  hawsers  still  held  her  stern  to  the  dock. 
Presently  these  were  cast  off  and  the  shore  began  rap 
idly  to  recede,  shrinking  back  upon  itself;  the  outline  of 
the  city  became  more  definite,  fitting  itself  into  the  pic 
tures  and  photographs  Carey  had  so  often  seen  of  "New 
York's  sky  line." 

Anna  came  up  to  them.  She  was  radiant ;  from  sheer 
exuberance  of  spirits,  she  was  suddenly  seized  with  one 
of  her  fits  of  silent  laughter,  holding  her  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes,  her  back  and  shoulders  shaking  convulsively. 

"Got  the  pip?"  Jerry  asked,  unconcernedly.  Anna's 
increased  contortions  bore  evidence  to  her  appreciation 
of  his  humour.  Presently  she  was  able  to  control  herself, 
wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  leaning  her  elbows  upon 
the  rail. 


THE  AMATEUR  103 


"You  always  make  me  laugh,  Mr.  Hart,"  she  said.  "I 
don't  know  how  it  is.  The  things  you  say !  I  sometimes 
wake  up  in  the  night  and  get  laughing  like  anything,  just 
remembering  what  you've  said." 

"You'd  make  a  hit  on  the  stage,"  said  Carey,  "if  you 
only  could  get  a  nightly  audience  with  Miss  Blanchard's 
appreciation." 

"That's  just  what  I  say!"  exclaimed  Anna.  "I  was 
saying  just  that  same  thing  to  Mamma  Muggins  last 
night.  I  said  Mr.  Hart  would  make  a  great  hit  on  the 
stage." 

"Aw,  forget  it !"  said  Jerry,  embarrassed  by  the  girl's 
earnestness.  "My  line's  selling  graphite,  which  same 
edifying  occupation  I  ought  to  be  doing  right  this  min 
ute!" 

"Oh,  now,  Mr.  Hart!"  expostulated  Anna.  "Surely 
they  can  spare  you  one  Saturday  morning.  I'm  so  glad 
you  both  could  come." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  three  leaned  on  the  rail, 
watching  the  city  slip  past  them.  Carey  recalled  his  first 
impression  of  New  York,  from  almost  that  same  point 
of  view :  a  confused  tangle  of  black  shadows  piled  one 
upon  another;  a  crouching  monster,  silent,  menacing, 
awaiting  its  prey.  His  resolve  not  to  be  a  quitter,  to 
achieve  success,  to  win  preferment,  not  to  be  devoured 
by  the  monster,  came  back  to  him  with  no  pleasing  sense 
of  having  stuck  to  his  determination.  That  morning  was 
the  first  on  which  Marks  and  Heineman  would  fail  to 
receive  their  monograms  from  him.  He  had  fallen  asleep 
over  his  work  the  night  before  and,  rising  early,  had  had 
only  half  the  number  finished  by  breakfast  time.  Jerry's 
suggestion  that  he  send  word  that  he  was  sick  seemed  to 
solve  the  problem  so  efficiently  and  so  pleasantly  that  he 
had  grasped  it  and  sent  a  note  by  a  messenger  written 


104  THE  AMATEUR 


in  pencil  to  convey  the  impression  of  having  been  writ 
ten  in  bed.  Five  months  had  slipped  by,  and  he  had 
so  far  failed  to  make  the  slightest  headway  toward  real 
ising  any  of  the  ambitions  that  had  been  his  back  home. 
"You  dance,  don't  you,  Mr.  Williams  ?"  Anna  Blanch- 
ard  was  speaking  to  him.  "We're  going  to  have  some 
dancing  later  on,  and  there's  a  girl  here  I  want  you  to 
meet.  She's  one  of  our  teachers.  I  know  you'll  like  her. 
.  .  .  I'll  have  to  go  now.  Dr.  Hammersmith  may  be 
needing  me.  See  you  later." 

The  Narragansett  was  passing  the  Soldiers'  and  Sail 
ors'  Monument.  Carey  gazed  at  it,  struck  with  admira 
tion,  resolving  to  make  a  sketch  of  it  on  his  first  free 
morning. 

Presently  the  steamer  began  to  manoeuvre  for  its  land 
ing  at  One  Hundred  and  Twenty-fifth  Street.  A  crowd, 
almost  as  large  as  the  one  that  had  boarded  the  steamer 
at  the  Battery,  waited  for  the  Narragansett  to  dock. 
Carey  could  hardly  believe  it  possible  that  so  many  more 
would  be  allowed  on  board. 

"It's  the  Sunday  Schools  that  sell  the  tickets,"  ex 
plained  Jerry.  "If  they  weren't  so  dead  eager  to  pull 
people's  legs  for  half  a  dollar,  there  wouldn't  be  a  crowd 
like  this.  It's  not  the  steamship  company's  fault." 

"But  where  are  they  going  to  put  them?"  Carey  de 
manded.  "There  isn't  a  stool  or  a  seat  left,  except  in 
side." 

"Oh,  don't  worry.  Every  one  of  'em  knows  what  an 
excursion  is  like,  and  comes  prepared." 

Somewhere,  somehow,  the  additional  hundreds  of 
passengers  found  room  aboard  the  Narragansett,  and, 
when  the  steamer  once  more  resumed  her  course  up  the 
river,  there  was  a  general  altering  of  positions  and  set- 


THE  AMATEUR  105 


tling  down.  It  was  as  though  the  worst  that  each  had 
feared  was  now  over.  The  One  Hundred  and  Twenty- 
fifth  Street  crowd  had  been  disposed  of,  and  now  no 
one  was  likely  to  disturb  them.  There  would  be  no  more 
stops  until  they  reached  West  Point. 

Carey  and  Jerry  Hart  joined  the  Fillmores  on  the  for 
ward  deck,  where  they  had  established  themselves  on  the 
shady  side  in  the  lee  of  the  pilot  house,  the  door  of  which 
bore  the  words:  "No  Admittance.  This  Means  You." 
The  two  little  girls  were  already  eating,  their  faces 
smeared  with  jam  and  crumbs.  Mrs.  Fillmore  and  Miss 
Watt  were  comfortably  seated  in  chairs,  while  the  others, 
on  the  folding  canvas  stools,  were  grouped  about  them. 
Mrs.  Charley  Fillmore,  her  hands  engaged  with  crackers 
and  a  jam  knife,  was  endeavouring  to  brush  aside  with 
the  back  of  her  bent  wrist  a  wisp  of  hair  that  had  blown 
across  her  eyes.  Mr.  Blanchard  was  explaining  again 
and  again  how  he  had  been  able  to  secure  the  two  chairs 
for  Mrs.  Fillmore  and  Miss  Watt  while  others  had  to 
be  contented  with  the  folding  stools.  Anna  was  not  with 
them.  One  of  the  little  girls,  holding  an  extra  stool  tight 
in  her  thin  little  arms,  screamed  to  the  two  boys  as  they 
came  up,  her  mouth  full  of  jam  and  crackers,  that  neither 
of  them  could  have  that  stool  because  it  belonged  to  Aunt 
Annie. 

"The  Palisades  begin  on  the  opposite  shore,  Mr.  Wil 
liams,"  Miss  Watt  explained.  "/  said  we  ought  to  be 
on  the  other  side.  All  the  colouring  in  the  foliage  is  on 
that  side;  you  only  see  the  country  places  of  rich  folks 
from  this  side.  But  it's  pretty  both  sides.  You,  being  an 
artist,  are  sure  to  like  the  colouring  of  the  leaves,  espe 
cially  as  you  say  you  don't  have  any  autumn  where  you 
come  from.  .  .  .  But  ain't  it  a  grand  day?" 

Mrs.  Fillmore,  after  considerable  fishing  in  her  reticule, 


106  THE  AMATEUR 


produced  some  sewing.  A  great  deal  of  confusion  fol 
lowed.  Mrs.  Fillmore,  it  seemed,  never  could  thread 
her  needle,  her  eyes  were  too  poor ;  Miss  Watt  hadn't  her 
glasses  with  her;  Mrs.  Charley  Fillmore  was  all 
"jammy";  Mr.  Blanchard  said  he'd  try;  but  Jerry  finally 
volunteered  and  slipped  the  silk  through  the  eye  with  as 
little  difficulty  as  a  seamstress. 

They  were  still  marvelling  at  his  dexterity  when  Anna 
joined  them.  A  friend  was  with  her,  who  was  introduced 
all  round  as  Miss  Boardman.  Carey  sensed  that  this  was 
the  girl  with  whom  later  he  was  expected  to  dance.  She 
was  rather  small,  with  a  trim  figure,  dark  hair  and  eyes, 
decidedly  pretty,  with  a  rather  serious  expression.  Pres 
ently  Anna  carried  the  two  boys  and  Miss  Boardman  off 
to  see  the  Palisades,  a  particularly  beautiful  portion  of 
which  she  declared  they  were  passing  at  that  moment. 

A  magnificent  mosaic  of  a  myriad  of  brilliant  tones 
covered  the  abrupt  shore.  The  acclivity  rose  nearly  two 
hundred  sheer  feet.  Yellows,  reds,  purples,  browns,  with 
every  conceivable  gradation  in  shade,  overspread  the 
steep  bank;  and  this  sumptuous  blending  of  colours 
stretched  up  and  down  the  river  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
see.  Although  Carey  had  expected  something  wonder 
ful,  he  was  deeply  stirred.  Anna  broke  into  exclamations 
of  rapture  and  led  Jerry  further  forward  to  show  him  the 
contrast  between  the  opposing  shores.  It  was  not  till 
some  time  afterwards  that  Carey  became  suddenly  aware 
that  Miss  Boardman  was  silently  leaning  upon  the  rail 
beside  him,  chin  on  palm,  obviously  stirred  by  the  mad 
patchwork  of  colour  slipping  by  them. 

It  was  several  minutes  before  either  of  them  spoke. 
Behind  them  and  about  them  rose  a  babble  of  noise ;  the 
laughter  and  shrill  cries  of  girls,  the  deeper  tones  of  the 
men's  voices,  the  screams  of  children.  Carey  thought 


THE  AMATEUR  107 


how  vulgar  and  sordid  it  seemed,  and  wished  himself  a 
thousand  miles  away.  He  turned  to  the  girl : 

"It's  beautiful,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes, — I've  never  seen  anything  so  exquisite.  You're 
an  artist?  Miss  Blanchard  said  you  .  .  ." 

"I  make  my  living  by  drawing.  I've  begun  to  respect 
the  term  'artist'; — so  many  claim  it  who  haven't  any 
right  to  do  so.  It  takes  years  of  hard  work  to  become  an 
artist — a  real  artist." 

Miss  Boardman  made  no  reply.  She  continued  gazing 
at  the  autumnal  pageant  that  seemed  to  grow  more  lavish 
and  brilliant  as  the  steamer  proceeded. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said.  "I  hate  pretence. 
I  teach  a  class  of  little  boys  in  our  Sunday  School,  but 
I'm  not  a  teacher ;  I'm  really  a  student ;  and  with  Scrip 
tural  matters  I  shall  always  be  that.  I  feel  so  hypocritical 
when  my  little  boys  turn  to  me  as  an  authority  for  an 
swers  to  their  questions.  The  only  title  I  really  deserve," 
she  said  with  a  little  laugh,  "is  that  of  'stenographer/  ' 

"Where  do  you  work?"  Carey  asked.  He  thought  it 
remarkable  for  this  girl  to  acknowledge  so  simply  she 
was  a  wage-earner. 

"I'm  with  the  Consolidated  Press  Syndicate." 

Carey  turned  to  her,  surprised. 

"You  are!    Do  you  know  Mr.  Sherman?" 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed.  I  take  dictation  from  him  almost 
every  day.  He's  very  nice." 

"I  called  on  him  once  to  show  him  some  of  my  work." 
Carey  told  her  about  his  visit  and  the  interruption  of 
the  big  man  with  the  heavy  jowl  and  the  black  moustache. 

"That's  Mr.  Reinhardt.  He's  the  General  Manager; 
he's  a  hard  man  to  work  for;  he  yells  at  the  girls  so  he 
frightens  them  nearly  to  death.  The  telephone  operator 


io8  THE  AMATEUR 


is  Miss  Allison.  She's  a  dear;  I'm  awfully  fond  of  her. 
.  .  .  Did  Mr.  Sherman  give  you  a  story  ?" 

"He  was  going  to,"  said  Carey,  "when  that  big  guy — 
Mr.  Reinhardt — butted  in." 

"You  ought  to  call  on  him  again.  He's  kind  to  begin 
ners." 

Her  phrase  ruffled  Carey.  His  first  impulse  to  meet 
her  own  frankness  with  equal  simplicity  gave  place  to 
an  eager  desire  to  impress  her. 

"Oh,  I  guess  he  can  come  after  me  now," t he  said.  "I 
had  just  hit  New  York  when  I  went  to  see  him,  and  that 
was  his  chance.  As  it  is,  Ben  Mercy  was  the  first  to 
recognise  what  I  could  do.  He  and  the  Art  Editor  of  the 
Occident  give  me  all  the  work  I  can  possibly  handle." 

Miss  Boardman's  silence  left  him  in  doubt  as  to 
whether  she  was  awed  by  this  information,  or  whether 
she  knew  he  lied.  The  situation  was  saved  by  Anna  and 
Jerry  joining  them. 

Anna  was  in  the  wildest  spirits,  bordering  on  hysteria. 
She  threw  her  arms  around  Miss  Boardman  and  began  to 
kiss  her  rapturously,  to  the  girl's  obvious  embarrassment. 

"Oh,  quit  playing  post-office,"  cried  Carey,  in  disgust. 
"Who  said  there  was  going  to  be  any  dancing?" 

"Let's  go  down  on  the  deck  below — and  see,"  cried 
Anna.  "I  hear  the  band !  Come  on,  Janey !"  She  caught 
the  other  girl's  hand  and  started  for  the  nearest  stair 
way.  Carey  and  Jerry  Hart  followed. 

The  music  furnishing  the  clue,  the  four  had  no  difficulty 
in  locating  the  dancing  on  a  lower  deck.  Aft,  in  the  rear 
of  the  cabin,  the  deck  had  been  roped  off.  The  band, 
which  had  dwindled  to  six  pieces,  was  arranged  in  a 
ragged  half -circle  at  the  stern.  Inside  the  roped  space, 
couples  were  gravely  revolving.  There  seemed  no  grace 
or  abandon  or  mirth  in  their  movements.  Seriously,  with 


THE  AMATEUR  109 


conscientious  effort,  they  applied  themselves  to  the  matter 
in  hand.  Even  the  music  seemed  to  emanate  from  some 
kind  of  a  mechanical  contrivance.  Jerry  slipped  behind 
Miss  Boardman,  put  one  arm  around  her  waist,  and 
whirled  her  off  among  the  dancers.  Carey,  about  to  ask 
Anna  to  follow  their  example,  was  interrupted  by  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Hammersmith,  who  wanted  to  talk  to 
Anna  about  the  Church  guild.  Carey  watched  the  dancers 
a  while,  feeling  forlorn  and  dispirited.  Presently  the  dance 
was  over,  and  Miss  Boardman  and  Jerry  met  him,  both 
smiling  happily,  breathing  hard  from  their  exertions. 

They  were  drinking  lemonade  at  a  counter  that  had 
been  rigged  up  close  by  for  the  convenience  of  the  danc 
ers,  when  the  music  for  the  next  dance  began.  As  Anna 
came  towards  them,  Jerry  and  Miss  Boardman  turned 
about  together  and  Carey  was  obliged  to  ask  Anna  for 
the  dance. 

He  was  thoroughly  disgusted  with  everything  and 
everybody  now,  and  decided  to  sulk.  He  excused  him 
self  to  Anna  when  the  music  ceased,  and  went  down  to 
the  lower  deck  where  the  men  were  smoking.  Here  was 
located  the  bar — 'but  to-day  it  was  covered  over  with  an 
iron  grating,  heavily  padlocked.  About  its  counter  and 
brass  footrail,  Carey  knew  many  a  drunken  scene  had 
taken  place.  He  had  often  heard  of  the  orgies  that  oc 
curred  on  these  excursion  steamers  when  a  rough  holiday 
crowd  was  on  board.  There  were  sometimes  fights — 
serious  ones — with  perhaps  a  quick  knife-thrust  or  the 
flash  of  a  revolver  whipped  from  a  hip  pocket. 

Carey  smoked  a  cigarette,  and  then  made  the  circle  of 
the  narrow  deck  outside.  There  were  few  people, — only 
those  who  had  not  been  able  to  find  room  on  the  decks 
above,  or  those  who  preferred  the  comparative  quiet.  At 
the  stern,  where  the  wake  suddenly  formed,  a  writhing, 


no  THE  AMATEUR 


gushing  white  tangle  of  foam,  stretching  out  behind 
across  the  even  surface  of  the  river  like  a  trailing  mass  of 
floating  hair,  the  deck  was  deserted.  He  investigated 
some  of  the  corridors  that  ran  between  the  state  rooms 
and  cabins,  and,  trying  some  of  the  handles  of  the  doors, 
was  surprised  to  find  one  of  them  unlocked. 

He  had  never  seen  the  inside  of  a  steamer's  stateroom 
before.  He  glanced  up  and  down  the  narrow  corridor. 
At  one  end  a  single  light  in  a  red  globe  cast  a  mysterious 
ruddy  reflection  on  the  double  row  of  white,  silent  doors, 
passively  facing  one  another,  all  carefully  shut  and 
locked  except  this  one.  The  Narragansett  began  to  roll 
slightly  from  the  wash  of  a  passing  steamer.  The  smell 
of  cooking  from  the  galley,  where  lunch  was  being  pre 
pared,  floated  down  the  corridor.  An  altercation  between 
the  coloured  cooks  was  in  violent  progress. 

Cautiously  Carey  pushed  open  the  door.  The  state 
room  was  quite  empty;  he  stepped  in.  It  was  of  ordinary 
size,  but  it  seemed  to  him  absurdly  small.  On  the  left 
were  two  bunks,  the  lower  considerably  wider  than  the 
upper.  In  both  were  mattresses,  and  across  these  lay 
two  neatly  folded  blankets.  The  porthole  was  securely 
bolted.  Underneath  it  stood  the  wash  stand,  designed 
for  economy  of  space;  a  small  piece  of  a  well-advertised 
soap,  wrapped  up  in  a  gaudy  wrapper,  lay  in  the  soap  dish. 
Behind  the  door  and  along  the  side  of  the  wall,  hooks 
were  carefully  arranged  for  clothes.  There  was  a  white 
wooden  stool.  This  completed  the  room's  inventory. 
And  yet  it  had  a  decidedly  romantic  charm  for  Carey. 
He  thought  of  himself  and  Jerry  taking  a  trip  together 
in  such  a  compact  little  cabin.  His  heart  thrilled.  By 
kneeling  on  the  stool  he  could  peer  out  of  the  porthole 
upon  the  narrow  deck  which  he  had  recently  traversed. 
Two  people,  a  man  and  a  girl,  sat  immediately  beneath 


THE  AMATEUR  111 


him,  eating  an  early  lunch  from  a  yellow  pasteboard 
shoe-box. 

He  felt  that  Jerry  must  see  this  enchanting  room.  He 
slipped  into  the  narrow  hall  and  closed  the  door  silently 
behind  him.  It  was  part  of  the  game  to  be  mysterious 
about  it. 

He  came  upon  his  friend  descending  the  stairway  from 
the  upper  deck.  Each  was  looking  for  the  other. 

"Well,  for  the  love  of !" 

"Say,  Jerry,  I  want  to  show  you  one  of  the  cabins 
down  below.  The  door  was  unlocked;  I  just  happened 
to  try  the  handle." 

"Are  you  sore  about  something?"  Jerry  demanded. 

Carey  looked  blank. 

"Well,  what  do  you  go  sneaking  off  for  like  that? 
Just  like  a  sore-headed  bear!" 

"Oh,  forget  it,  Jerry,"  said  Carey.  "Sore — nothing! 
Come  ahead — I  want  to  show  you  this  cabin.  .  .  .  Jerry, 
would  you  like  to  travel  somewhere — on  a  big  steamer?" 

When  they  reached  the  stateroom,  Carey  was  disap 
pointed  in  the  other's  seeming  lack  of  enthusiasm.  Jerry 
looked  about,  evidently  interested,  but  indifferent  to  the 
romantic  charm  that  had  possessed  Carey  so  completely. 

"What  do  you  think  of  little  Janey?"  asked  Jerry 
abruptly. 

"Janey?    Janey — who?"  demanded  Carey. 

"Anna's  friend.  You  know !  Miss  Boardman !  Isn't 
she  a  pippin?"  the  other  continued. 

Carey  said  nothing.  He  was  thinking  of  Jerry's  clev 
erness  with  women,  his  ability  to  reach  terms  of  intimacy 
with  them  that  would  take  him,  Carey,  weeks  to  achieve. 

Jerry  sat  down  on  the  lower  berth  and  ran  his  hands 
through  his  hair. 

"You  like  her,  don't  you,  Carey?"  he  said.     "Well,  I 


112  THE  AMATEUR 


had  a  hunch  you  did.  I  won't  go  butting  in.  Go  to  it,  me 
boy;  you  have  my  blessing!" 

Carey  was  surprised  to  find  himself  suddenly  angry. 
He  cursed  Jerry  violently. 

"God!  You  make  me  sick!  It's  girls  and  women — 
women  and  girls,  with  you  from  morning  to  night.  A 
pretty  woman  can't  pass  you  on  the  street  without  you 
smirking  and  blurting  out,  'Get  on  to  the  skirt/ — 'Pipe 
the  shape.'  You've  gone  stark  crazy  about  girls.  You 
can't  meet  a  decent  little  girl  like  that  Boardman  kid  that 
you  don't  immediately  begin  to  chase  her — calling  her  by 
her  first  name — twosing  and  flirting  with  her.  Why,  even 
poor  old  Anna  Blanchard  you  can't  let  alone.  What  is 
there  in  it  for  you,  with  a  girl  like  Anna  ?  She's  a  silly, 
hysterical  creature,  almost  an  old  maid !  You  go  teasing 
and  jollying  the  poor  thing  until  she  doesn't  know 
whether  she's  afoot  or  ahorseback." 

Jerry  stared  at  his  friend  in  amazement.  Carey  rarely 
expressed  himself  so  vehemently.  His  fair  skin  was 
congested  with  his  emotion,  his  hands  were  clenched,  his 
voice  shook. 

"Well— well — well!"  Jerry  said,  placatingly.  "Don't 
get  so  excited.  Good  Lord — you  fly  off  the  handle  like  a 
nervous  old  hen.  Anna  isn't  so  bad,  now.  She's  got  a 
trim  enough  figure,  and  there  isn't  any  harm  in  admiring 
a  beautiful  figure,  is  there?  I  bet  you,  she  .  .  .  Well, 
never  mind.  You're  too  damn  touchy.  Forget  it,  my 
boy.  What  did  you  say  about  taking  a  trip  somewhere?" 

Carey  began  to  explain  how  much  a  voyage  in  a  big 
steamer,  with  Jerry  and  himself  in  a  little  cabin  such  as 
they  were  in,  would  mean  to  him.  For  a  long  time  they 
argued  the  different  countries  they  preferred.  Carey 
wanted  to  visit  South  America ;  Jerry  was  only  interested 
in  Paris.  Carey  had  heard  his  father  talk  of  the  beauties 


THE  AMATEUR  113 


of  Buenos  Aires  and  the  Argentina,  and  he  had  always 
been  eager  to  see  them  for  himself.  He  was  regaling 
Jerry  with  some  of  his  father's  experiences  when  he  ob 
served  that  the  other  was  not  listening.  Brusquely  he 
stood  up. 

"Come  on;  it  must  be  lunch  time.  Let's  eat  in  the 
restaurant.  The  Fillmores  have  a  lot  of  boxes  packed 
with  lunch,  but  I  know  just  what's  in  'em.  We  get 
enough  of  their  grub,  anyhow." 

As  they  came  out  in  the  smoking  cabin,  they  were  sur 
prised  to  find  it  later  than  they  thought.  The  Narra- 
gansett  was  slowing  down  for  the  landing  at  the  public 
dock  at  West  Point.  Luncheon  in  the  restaurant  was 
almost  over.  A  few  late  diners  were  hurriedly  finishing 
the  remnants  on  their  plates,  departing  from  the  saloon, 
toothpicks  in  mouths.  The  old  steamer  listed  heavily  to 
starboard  as  her  passengers  crowded  along  her  rail,  cran 
ing  their  necks  to  watch  the  boat  make  her  landing. 

Carey's  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  grey  stone  buildings 
beyond  upon  the  hill,  where  at  one  time  he  had  hoped  he 
was  to  learn  to  become  a  soldier. 

In  the  scramble  that  attended  the  disembarking,  he  lost 
Jerry.  He  spent  nearly  ten  minutes  of  the  hour  that  the 
excursionists  were  allowed  to  view  the  Academy  in  look 
ing  for  him.  He  waved  to  the  two  white  bundles  on  the 
upper  deck  that  represented  Mamma  Muggins  and  Miss 
Watt.  None  of  the  others  was  with  them.  He  decided, 
presently,  that  Jerry  had  gone  on,  and  he  set  out  to  over 
take  him. 

He  failed  to  do  so,  however,  as  the  excursionists  were 
scattered  over  the  Academy  grounds.  He  was  disap 
pointed  in  seeing  so  few  of  the  cadets.  Most  of  them 
were  in  their  class  rooms ;  he  caught  an  occasional  glimpse 


ii4  THE  AMATEUR 


of  a  grey-uniformed  figure  at  a  window.  Once  a  cadet 
officer  passed  him,  his  note  books  under  his  arm,  the 
ends  of  the  red  sash  about  his  waist  flying  behind  him  as 
he  walked.  Carey  could  not  keep  his  eyes  away  from 
him,  fascinated  by  the  other's  erect  carriage,  the  supple 
ness  of  his  young  physique,  the  grace  with  which  he 
strode  along. 

A  prolonged  blast  of  the  Narragansett's  whistle  ad 
vised  him  that  it  was  time  to  return.  The  excursionists 
began  to  retrace  their  steps  toward  the  boat.  But  Carey 
failed  to  encounter  Jerry,  either  in  the  numerous  groups 
that  passed  him,  or  later  when  he  made  a  tour  of  the 
steamer's  decks  after  the  last  of  her  passengers  had  come 
aboard,  the  gang-plank  pulled  in,  and  the  return  trip  be-, 
gun.  He  met  Miss  Boardman,  however,  as  he  came  up 
to  where  the  Fillmores  were  sitting,  in  the  hope  that,  as 
a  final  possibility,  Jerry  might  have  joined  them.  None 
had  seen  Jerry.  Miss  Boardman  was  looking  for  Anna, 
half  afraid  she  had  been  left  behind.  Together  they  made 
a  final  circuit  of  the  upper  deck. 

"Perhaps  they've  eloped,"  suggested  Carey. 

Miss  Boardman  glanced  at  him  a  moment  and  began 
to  laugh. 

When  she  laughed,  Carey  was  struck  with  the  ex 
ceeding  charm  of  her  expression.  In  repose,  her  face 
was  almost  too  serious. 

"Anna's  eloping  with  any  one  seems  to  me  terribly 
funny,"  she  said.  "She's  far  too  much  the  cricket-by- 
the-hearth  for  that." 

"For  a  person  who  lives  such  a  humdrum  existence, 
she  seems  to  get  an  awful  lot  of  fun  out  of  life,"  Carey 
remarked. 

"That's  her  nature,"  said  Jane  Boardman.  "I  never 
knew  any  one  with  so  sunny  a  disposition.  I've  known 


THE  AMATEUR  115 


Anna  for  over  three  years,  and  I've  never  seen  her  when 
she  was  either  blue  or  unhappy.  And  she's  had  a  great 
deal  more  trouble  than  I." 

"Have  you  had  trouble?"  asked  Carey.  "You  don't 
look  as  though  you'd  ever  had  an  unhappy  day  in  your 
life." 

Miss  Boardman  shrugged  her  shoulders  lightly. 

"Oh,  nothing  much.  Just  money  trouble.  My  father 
lost  his  money  and  he's — he's  ill,  you  know.  It's — "  she 
hesitated,  "it's  a  sort  of  paralysis,  they  say,"  she  added. 
"My  brother  and  I  have  to  work.  .  .  .  They're  dancing 
again.  Let's  go  down." 

It  was  too  hot  for  dancing.  The  roped-off  deck  they 
found  deserted,  the  musicians  drooping  over  their  instru 
ments.  Boys  with  "ice-cold  lemonade"  and  sheaves  of 
straws  were  working  their  way  among  the  crowded 
groups,  hawking  their  beverage.  Most  of  the  men  were 
asleep,  their  figures  sprawled  across  the  deck  or  propped 
on  chairs.  The  clatter  of  children  was  noticeably  hushed. 
Occasionally  one  heard  a  subdued  crooning  from  a  mother 
coaxing  a  child  into  its  mid-day  nap. 

"Let's  go  down  on  the  deck  below,"  suggested  Carey. 
"There's  almost  no  one  there,  and  it's  quiet  and  cool ;  you 
can  walk  up  and  down.  Did  you  ever  take  an  ocean  voy 
age  on  a  big  steamer,  Miss  Boardman?" 

"No,  I  never  have,"  she  answered.  "Of  course  I 
should  like  it,  some  day.  I  should  dearly  love  to  travel. 
Have  you?" 

Carey  commenced  telling  her  about  the  stateroom  he 
had  found  unlocked  that  morning.  He  finished  by  tell 
ing  her  all  about  his  home,  his  mother,  his  life  and  his 
ambitions. 

They  had  found  two  stools,  and  placed  them  in  the 
extreme  stern.  They  hung  over  the  rail  watching  the 


ii6  THE  AMATEUR 


foaming  waters  rush  violently  together,  pouring  them 
selves  into  the  great  hole  the  steamer  constantly  left 
behind.  There  was  no  one  on  either  side  of  them  for 
some  distance. 

"I'm  determined  to  make  good,  Miss  Boardman," 
Carey  concluded.  "But  it  seems  such  a  long  road.  I 
don't  know — there's  something  wrong  with  me,  I  guess. 
I  lied  to  you  this  morning.  That's  not  a  bit  so  about 
Ben  Mercy  and  the  Occident  Art  Editor  giving  me  work. 
That  was  an  awful  lie.  I  guess  I  wanted  to  make  you 
think  I  was  making  a  big  success." 

The  girl  turned  abruptly  toward  him,  her  hands  ex 
tended  impulsively  till  her  finger  tips  touched  his  sleeve. 

"I'm  glad  you've  said  that/'  she  replied.  "I  knew 
that  wasn't  so,  because  Anna  had  told  me  about  the  mono 
grams.  It  hurt  me  to  have  you  think  I  was  the  kind  of 
person  with  whom  that  would  count.  Why,  when  Anna 
first  told  me  about  you,  I  wanted  to  meet  you  right  away, 
just  because  you  were  a  beginner  and  had  your  success 
to  win.  I  know  how  hard  it  is  to  make  a  success  in  your 
profession.  Do  you  suppose  I  should  have  the  least 
cared  about  knowing  you  if  Anna  had  told  me  you  were 
getting  all  the  work  you  could  handle  from  Ben  Mercy 
and  the  Occident  man? 

"I  hate  pretence,"  she  went  on  vehemently.  "People 
who  try  to  bluff  never  get  anywhere;  they  never  fool 
anybody.  By  and  by  bluffing  becomes  a  disease,  and  they 
begin  to  bluff  themselves,  and  then  they  become  laughing- 
stocks  to  all  their  friends." 

"I  wish  somebody  would  take  me  out  and  kick  me 
round  the  block,"  said  Carey. 

"Now,  don't  let  what  I've  said  bother  you.  It's  as 
though  you'd  never  said  it,  and  we're  better  friends  be- 


THE  AMATEUR  117 


cause  you  did.  Why,  I  really  want  to  help  you,  and  I 
believe  I  can." 

"You're  awfully  good,"  said  Carey,  gratefully. 

"Would  you  mind,"  she  continued,  "if  I  spoke  to  Mr. 
Sherman  about  you  and  asked  him  to  let  you  come  in  and 
have  a  talk  with  him,  when  he  had  the  time?" 

"Mind!"  exclaimed  Carey.  "Why,  Miss  Boardman, 
I'd  give  anything  to  get  a  real  criticism  from  a  man  like 
Sherman.  I  want  to  know  what  the  trouble  with  my  stuff 
is.  ...  You  haven't  any  idea  what  this  talk  with  you 
has  meant  to  me.  I've  been  frittering  away  my  time, 
fooling  round  with  Jerry  Hart  and  the  fellows  at  the 
boarding  house  and  not  doing  a  thing.  Talking  to  you 
has  brought  back  all  the  keen  desire  to  get  in  and  work 
that  I  had  when  I  first  arrived  in  New  York.  That  isn't 
six  months  ago,  and  yet  it  seems  as  though  I  was  an  en 
tirely  different  man  now." 

"Well,"  the  girl  said,  "I  shan't  have  any  difficulty 
in  making  an  appointment  with  Mr.  Sherman.  I'll 
speak  to  him  on  Monday,  and  then  I'll  telephone  Anna, 
and  she  can  tell  you  when  to  come.  Mr.  Sherman  has 
done  a  thousand  little  kindnesses  for  me,  and  he's  always 
doing  good  to  others.  I  know,  because  he  dictates  his 
personal  letters  to  me  and,  d'you  know,  he  gives  away 
nearly  half  his  salary  every  month  ?" 

For  some  time  the  two  had  been  walking  about  the 
deck.  The  Narragansett  was  opposite  the  Speedway,  and 
those  who  would  disembark  at  One  Hundred  and  Twenty- 
fifth  Street  were  beginning  to  gather  their  things  to 
gether.  Many  who  had  occupied  the  decks  now  found 
the  cabins  more  comfortable,  for  a  sharp  afternoon  wind 
had  sprung  up,  freshening  with  the  lengthening  shadows. 
Carey  and  Jane  Boardman  practically  had  their  prom 
enade  about  the  deck  unimpeded. 


ii8  THE  AMATEUR 


Suddenly  the  girl  stopped  and  held  up  her  hand. 

"Listen!"  she  commanded. 

Faintly  but  distinctly  there  came  to  their  ears  the  un 
mistakable  accents  of  Anna's  voice.  She  was  crying  bit 
terly,  and  they  caught  the  reproachful  tone  and  the 
words : 

"Jerry!     Oh,  my  darling!     Oh,  Jerry!" 

As  though  drawn  by  a  magnet,  Carey's  eyes  found 
the  porthole  just  above  their  heads.  He  felt  his  heart 
leap  and  his  eyes  widen  with  the  excitement  that  sud 
denly  possessed  him.  Miss  Boardman's  gaze,  he  knew, 
was  fixed  upon  his  face. 

"What  is  it?"  she  whispered.  "Wasn't  that  Anna's 
voice  ?" 

"No."  He  struggled  to  regain  his  self-control. 
"Somebody's  seasick,  I  guess.  .  .  .  Would  you  mind  if  I 
smoked  a  cigarette?  I  don't  think  anybody 'd  object  now. 
Every  one's  gone  upstairs.  Let's  go  watch  the  wake 
again." 

As  he  passed  down  the  deck  toward  the  steamer's 
stern,  he  involuntarily  glanced  over  his  shoulder.  As  if 
to  furnish  the  last  bit  of  corroborative  evidence,  in  the 
scuppers  against  the  rail,  between  two  folding  stools  at 
the  spot  where  they  had  just  been  standing,  lay  a  broken 
and  forgotten  yellow  shoe  box,  in  which  a  lunch  had 
once  been  packed.  It  was  the  same  box  Carey  remembered 
having  seen  in  the  woman's  lap  when  he  had  peered  out 
through  the  porthole  of  the  stateroom  that  morning. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


'|AHE  next  few  days  were  full  of  perplexity  for  Carey. 
A  He  was  beset  with  one  unfamiliar  emotion  after 
another.  He  had  never  been  impressed  with  sin  before. 
The  principles  of  character  he  respected  were  those  allied 
with  such  virtues  as  kindness,  unselfishness,  generosity, 
respect  for  the  aged  and  consideration  for  the  feelings 
of  others.  His  mother  had  so  intensely  impressed  upon 
him  the  evils  of  drink  that  he  considered  men  who  con 
stantly  required  stimulants  to  carry  them  through  a  day's 
work  as  but  a  step  removed  from  being  weak-willed  and 
degenerate.  Intoxication  when,  in  his  own  mind,  the 
occasion  justified  it,  was  not  so  reprehensible.  All  good 
fellows  got  "jagged"  at  times.  Besides  this,  he  had  a 
code  of  honour, — a  peculiar,  man's  code,  which  was  vari 
able  and  elastic.  It  was  the  code  of  other  men  he  knew, 
— -his  associates  back  home  and  his  new  acquaintances  in 
New  York.  This  code,  as  far  as  women  were  concerned, 
demanded  him  to  hold  in  contempt  men  who  resisted  the 
overtures  of  the  other  sex,  but  at  the  same  time  to  con 
demn  those  who  took  advantage  of  a  woman's  weakness 
and  first  robbed  her  of  her  virtue. 

There  was  little  doubt  but  that  Jerry  had  seduced 
Anna;  and  the  thought  of  his  wanton  selfishness  in  taking 
advantage  of  the  poor,  simple,  loving  girl,  filled  Carey 
with  indignation.  There  were  no  palliating  circum- 

119 


120  THE  AMATEUR 


stances.  Jerry  had  played  upon  her  obvious  love  of  him 
to  gratify  a  moment's  passion.  It  made  Carey  sick.  Like 
an  iron  at  white  heat,  the  incident  burnt  itself  into  his 
mind  and  soul. 

Had  its  effect  been  only  that  of  horror  and  disgust, 
Carey's  character  might  have  gained  additional  strength 
and  his  nature  a  detestation  for  vice.  He  lost  nothing 
in  the  termination  of  his  friendship  with  Jerry  Hart. 
Even  Carey  had  recognised  its  demoralising  influence. 
Further  association  with  him,  of  course,  was  now  im 
possible. 

Unfortunately,  a  far  more  important  result  of  the 
affair  was  the  effect  upon  him  sexually.  It  was  like  the 
touch  upon  a  switch-board  that  set  the  machinery  of 
this  hitherto  subconscious  side  of  his  nature  in  opera 
tion.  Suddenly  he  became  sexually  alive.  He  was  pos 
sessed  with  morbid  thoughts  and  an  unwholesome  curi 
osity  to  know  just  what  had  taken  place  in  that  state 
room,  how  Jerry  had  enticed  Anna  there,  whether  he  had 
done  so  deliberately,  or  whether  the  poor  girl,  submitting 
to  his  embraces,  had  awakened  his  desires.  Constantly 
there  rang  in  his  ears  Anna's  reproachful  cry:  "Jerry- 
Oh,  my  darling !  Oh,  Jerry !" 

Carey  was  naturally  pure  minded.  The  trend  of  his 
thoughts  distressed  him  profoundly.  He  struggled  to 
shake  them  from  him;  but  the  presence  of  both  Jerry 
and  Anna  in  the  house  constantly  supplied  new  fuel  for 
his  imagination.  The  possession  of  this  secret  affected 
him  like  a  noisome  pestilential  fungus  upon  his  hitherto 
clean  soul. 

Incessantly  he  watched  them.  At  first,  he  avoided 
Jerry  with  natural  revulsion.  The  day  following  the 
excursion — a  Sunday — Jerry  had  spent  visiting  some  ac 
quaintances  who  lived  in  Summit,  New  Jersey.  Carey 


THE  AMATEUR  121 


did  not  see  him  again  till  Monday's  supper  hour.  He 
thought  he  detected  the  quick,  significant  glance  that 
passed  between  Jerry  and  Anna  when  the  former  en 
tered  the  dining  room. 

To  Carey,  Anna  seemed  wonderfully  self -controlled. 
Occasionally,  he  thought  others  would  surely  recognise 
the  transparent  love  that  shone  out  of  her  eyes  when  she 
met  Jerry's  gaze.  Otherwise,  she  seemed  her  happy,  un 
affected  self. 

In  his  own  mind  was  going  on  the  agitation  that  should 
have  been  theirs.  He  could  not  cease  speculating  on  the 
outcome  of  events.  He  could  not  sleep.  In  the  night, 
for  long  hours,  he  lay  awake,  going  over  the  affair, 
imagining  what  had  happened  between  them,  hearing 
again  and  again  Anna's  reproachful  cry. 

As  to  how  much  Jane  Boardman  had  understood,  he 
was  undecided.  She  was  aware  that  the  voice  they  had 
heard  was  Anna's;  but  Carey  was  almost  certain  she 
had  failed  to  catch  Anna's  words.  Her  attitude  at  the 
time  had  been  to  protect  her  friend  from  their  unin 
tentional  eavesdropping.  That  a  girl  so  young,  and  so 
obviously  innocent,  should  be  in  any  way  mixed  up  in 
such  a  sordid  affair  distressed  him.  Anna  was  at 
least  eight  years  her  senior.  Jane  Boardman  was  not 
more  than  a  year  or  so  out  of  her  teens.  If  the  episode 
had  made  so  powerful  an  impression  upon  himself,  what 
would  be  its  effect,  Carey  wondered,  upon  a  mind  so 
tender  and  pure  as  this  young  girl's  ? 

He  tried  to  persuade  himself,  since  she  had  be 
trayed  no  sign  of  agitation  at  the  moment,  her  compo 
sure  indicated  that  she  had  not  understood  the  situation. 

In  the  unhealthy  state  of  Carey's  mind  there  germ 
inated  a  morbid  desire  for  Anna's  company.  At  first  this 


122  THE  AMATEUR 


took  the  form  of  spying  upon  her.  Jerry  Hart,  on  Wed 
nesday,  left  for  a  ten  days'  trip  up  the  state.  About  once 
in  two  months,  the  graphite  company  that  employed  him 
sent  him  off  on  one  of  these  salesman  tours.  Jerry  hated 
to  make  them;  but  Carey  suspected  that  this  particular 
trip  was  suggested  by  Jerry  himself. 

His  absence  at  this  time  was  a  great  relief  to  Carey, 
who  foresaw  that  an  explanation  of  his  attitude  would, 
sooner  or  later,  be  expected.  With  Jerry  absent,  his  own 
curiosity  as  to  Anna's  movements  abated  and,  in  place 
of  this  shabby  inquisitiveness,  there  arose  within  his  heart 
a  genuine  affection  for  her. 

Whether  it  was  because  he  was  Jerry's  friend,  or  be 
cause  his  new  kindliness  and  sympathy  attracted  her,  or 
because  his  knowledge  of  her  secret  made  him  seem  to 
her  miraculously  considerate  and  thoughtful,  Anna  turned 
to  Carey  after  Jerry's  departure  as  if  she  found  in  him 
the  only  relief  from  the  confusion  of  her  thoughts.  She 
was  different  with  him  than  when  she  was  with  Jerry. 
She  rarely  laughed,  and  to  Carey  this  was  a  welcome 
change,  for  often  her  senseless  mirth  annoyed  him.  Long 
silences  occurred  between  them,  and,  when  they  spoke, 
it  was  generally  Jerry  whom  they  discussed.  He  was 
the  subject  uppermost  in  both  minds,  and  neither  seemed 
to  weary  of  talking  about  him,  arguing  over  his  traits 
of  character,  analyzing  his  nature.  It  became  custom 
ary  for  them  to  sit  on  the  brown  stone  steps  of  the  board 
ing  house  after  dinner  for  these  talks,  and  often  it  was 
nine  o'clock  and  after  before  they  went  in.  Sometimes 
they  walked  about  the  block  as  far  as  Fourteenth  Street 
and  back.  In  their  arguments  concerning  Jerry,  it  was 
invariably  Carey  who  criticised  him,  assailing  his  weak 
nesses  and  condemning  his  selfishness,  and  Anna  who 
defended  him.  It  became  apparent  to  Carey  that  he  was 


THE  AMATEUR  123 


nurturing  in  his  heart  a  steadily  growing  dislike  for  his 
recent  friend.  When  the  first  feeling  of  repulsion  had 
passed,  Carey  feared  that  his  feelings  toward  him  had 
undergone  no  radical  change.  After  Jerry's  departure,  this 
dislike  of  him,  which  Carey  felt  was  engendered  by  his 
talks  with  Anna,  was  a  source  of  much  gratification  to 
him.  Carey  was  at  that  state  of  adolescence  when  in 
trospection  occupied  a  great  deal  of  his  thoughts  when 
alone,  but  in  the  present  instance,  he  failed,  for  the  most 
part,  to  analyze  clearly  either  his  feelings  or  his  emotions. 
Alone  at  night  in  his  room,  sometimes  gazing  into  the 
dim  shadows  that  flickered  across  the  white  ceiling  above 
his  head  as  he  lay  in  bed,  or  staring  for  long  minutes  at 
his  own  reflection  in  his  mirror,  Carey  tried  to  understand 
himself.  His  increasing  interest  in  Anna  and  his  change 
of  heart  toward  Jerry  puzzled  him.  At  first,  he  told  him 
self  that  these  arose  from  a  sense  of  pity  and  righteous 
indignation — the  natural  feelings  of  any  man  in  his  posi 
tion.  But,  delving  into  the  inner  recesses  of  his  heart  and 
dissecting  his  emotions,  he  was  not  sure  that  they  did  not 
emanate  from  a  jealousy  that  was  becoming  daily  more 
acute,  and  a  morbid  attraction  for  the  girl  who  had 
played  a  weak  and  adulterous  part  with  his  friend. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  week,  Anna  received  a  note 
from  Jane  Boardman  saying  that  Mr.  Sherman  would 
be  glad  to  see  Mr.  Williams  any  afternoon  after  three. 
Carey  waited  until  the  following  Tuesday  and,  with  his 
portfolio  under  his  arm,  once  more  found  himself  in  the 
outer  office  of  the  Consolidated  Press  Syndicate. 

He  was  given  no  opportunity  to  cool  his  heels  on  this 
occasion.  Almost  immediately,  Mr.  Sherman  sent  word 
to  "show  him  in,"  and,  when  Carey  entered  his  office, 
held  out  his  hand  with  a  hearty  welcome. 


124  THE  AMATEUR 

"Well,  let's  see  your  proofs,  young  man,"  he  said 
cheerfully.  "Miss  Boardman  tells  me  you  have  been 
having  a  hard  time  of  it.  New  York's  a  pretty  stiff  place, 
and  you  came  here  about  the  worst  possible  time  of  the 
year  to  take  hold." 

He  spent  about  ten  minutes  looking  at  the  samples 
Carey  had  to  show.  Then  he  settled  back  into  his  swivel 
arm-chair  and  relit  the  stump  of  a  cigar  that  had  been 
allowed  to  go  out  on  the  edge  of  his  desk. 

"Mr.  Williams,"  he  said,  hugging  one  knee  and  teeter 
ing  back  and  forth  in  his  squeaky  chair,  "the  trouble  with 
you  beginners  is  that  you  don't  offer  anything  we  fellows 
want  to  buy.  Some  time  I'm  going  to  write  a  little  book 
and  call  it  A  Plea  for  the  Down-Trodden  Art  Editor. 
Almost  every  one  believes  the  Art  Editor  of  a  publish 
ing  house  should  be  a  patron  of  the  Arts  and  buy  things 
that  are  shown  him,  just  because  they  have  merit.  Now, 
I'm  employed  here  by  the  owners  of  this  magazine  to  buy 
stuff  that  can  be  used  in  it,  or  order  work  from  men  I 
know  can  produce  it.  Along  come  you  with  a  stack 
of  proofs  of  your  own  work.  But  what  have  you 
got  to  show  me?  Reproductions  of  wash  illustrations 
for  railway  folders,  a  poster,  some  sketches  of  inter 
esting  bits  of  landscape, — that's  about  all!  Doesn't  it 
strike  you  as  preposterous? 

"Now,  let  me  finish!"  Sherman  continued,  as  Carey 
attempted  to  interrupt.  "You've  come  to  me  for  advice, 
and  I'm  feeling  particularly  good  this  afternoon,  and  I'm 
going  to  give  it  to  you  straight  from  the  shoulder.  You 
were  going  to  say  that  you  didn't  come  here  hoping  to  get 
a  commission,  but  to  have  me  tell  you  what  was  the  matter 
with  your  stuff  and  how  to  go  about  getting  a  commis 
sion  from  some  one.  Now,  wasn't  that  what  you  were 
going  to  ask?" 


THE  AMATEUR  125 


Carey  smiled  his  admission. 

"Well,  now, — you  represent  a  type.  You  think  you 
are  different,  but  you're  not.  You  are  an  excellent  type 
of  the  beginner  who  starts  out  to  try  to  become  an 
illustrator.  Now,  I  represent  the  type  of  Art  Editor. 
Here  we  are, — you  and  I, — let's  thrash  this  out  together. 
First,  ^remember  I'm  here  to  buy  material  for  the  Con 
solidated  Press  Syndicate.  It's  up  to  you  to  bring 
me  something  I  want  to  buy.  Don't  get  any  notion  in 
your  head  that,  on  the  strength  of  what  you  show  me, 
I'm  going  to  give  you  a  story  to  illustrate!  I've  got  a 
dozen  to  twenty  big  illustrators  that  I've  got  to  support. 
You  smile, — but  that's  literally  true.  Let's  see.  Take 
your  friend,  Gregory  Shilling.  He  counts  on  six  or  ten 
yarns  from  me  every  year  to  illustrate.  He  does  satis 
factory  work.  I'm  always  pleased  with  what  he  brings 
me.  Take  John  Cameron  Wilson,  Castle  Jerome,  Henry 
Lyell,  Myron  Davis,  Mary  Sanders  Smart,  Bonestell  and 
War  field,  and  Mason  Edward  Camp — all  of  them  get 
work  from  me  and  are  entitled  to  keep  on  getting  it  as 
long  as  their  work  is  satisfactory.  How  would  you  feel, 
Mr.  Williams,  after  you  had  built  up  a  reputation  and 
a  market  by  hard,  sincere,  conscientious  work,  if  the 
Art  Editors  to  whom  you  had  given  the  result  of  your 
best  endeavours  should  hand  out  their  assignments  to 
youngsters  whose  work  showed  promise,  even  admitting 
they  could  turn  out  work  as  satisfactory?" 

"But  how  does  one  ever  get  a  start  ?"  demanded  Carey, 
struck  with  Sherman's  words. 

"That,  my  dear  boy,"  the  other  replied  kindly,  "no  one 
but  yourself  will  discover.  What  you  first  want  to  do  is 
to  study  the  magazines  until  you  are  familiar  with  what 
is  wanted.  You  know  the  kind  of  illustration  you  do 
the  best.  If  you  don't, — find  out.  Then  determine  the 


126  THE  AMATEUR 

periodical  that  uses  your  kind  of  material  the  most.  Now, 
we  publish  a  great  many  Western  stories  calling  for 
cowboys  and  mining  camps  and  cattle  ranges.  Gregory 
Shilling  and  Mason  Edward  Camp  generally  do  these  for 
me.  Overman's  wants  sea  pictures;  and  you  know  the 
magazines  that  are  devoted  to  women's  interests.  Pick 
out  one  that  you  think  would  be  most  likely  to  use  your 
work,  and  then  try  to  sell  'em  something,  always  going  to 
them  with  material  they  can  use.  Take  one  of  the  stories 
they  have  already  published,  read  it  and  study  it,  and 
illustrate  it  yourself  in  your  own  way,  and  then  take  it 
to  them  and  say,  'Look  here,  Mr.  Art  Editor,  these  pic 
tures  I  drew  to  illustrate  a  story  in  your  last  February 
issue.  You  remember  so-and-so  drew  the  pictures  for  it, 
but  this  is  what  I  would  have  shown  you  if  you  had  given 
it  to  me.  Now,  sir,  on  the  strength  of  these  pictures  of 
mine,  do  you  think  you  can  give  me  a  story  to  illustrate 
on  speculation  ?' 

"Then,  you  see,"  Mr.  Sherman  continued,  "you're 
offering  him  something  he  can  appraise.  I've  given  that 
piece  of  advice  to  several  hundred  artists  in  my  time, 
and,  as  far  as  I  know,  not  one  of  them  has  ever  followed 
it.  They  say,  'Oh,  I  haven't  the  time,'  or  'I  can't  afford 
model  hire/  But  they  hang  on  for  months  without  work, 
which  is  much  more  expensive.  Of  course,  you  can  at 
tempt  a  cover  design  and  send  it  to  the  various  magazines 
that  might  use  it.  But  selling  a  cover  design  is  the  hard 
est  thing  I  know  of,  and  I  should  advise  you  not  to  waste 
your  time  trying  it.  When  it  comes  to  a  cover,  our  cir 
culation  manager  knows  much  more  about  what  makes 
a  good  one  than  I  do.  Obviously  the  artist  knows  even 
less." 

"Now,  in  regard  to  your  work  itself,  Mr.  Williams," 
Sherman  went  on,  picking  up  Carey's  proofs,  "there's 


THE  AMATEUR  127 


not  very  much  I  can  say.  This  is  the  kind  of  material 
that  would  get  you  more  railway  folders  to  illustrate.  It 
indicates  that  you  can  do  this  sort  of  work  fairly  well. 
You  know  how  to  handle  a  vignette  interestingly,  and 
you  have  a  certain  sense  of  composition ;  but  it's  all  com 
mercial — advertising  stuff.  It's  hard  and  tight;  there's 
no  feeling  in  it  whatsoever.  Now,  this  poster.  You've 
got  an  eye  for  colour  values ;  but,  again,  your  composition 
is  all  too  tight.  You're  muscle-bound,  if  you  know  what 
I  mean.  Your  style  is  cramped  and — Hello,  what's  this? 
I  didn't  see  this  before.  Is  this  yours?" 

He  held  up  the  pastel  sketch  of  Jerry  Hart  that  Carey 
had  recently  finished. 

"It's  a  friend  of  mine.  I  did  it  only  the  other  day," 
he  said. 

"Well,  this  has  freedom  and  quality,  and  you've  caught 
a  rare  expression.  That's  good — excellent.  Of  all  your 
work  this  alone  seems  to  indicate  you  could  do  something 
beyond  the  ordinary." 

He  continued  to  study  the  sketch  for  some  minutes. 

"Why  don't  you  develop  a  technique?"  he  asked.  "I 
suppose  that's  easy  to  suggest  and  rather  difficult  to  do. 
The  reason  I  mention  it  to  you  is  that  most — I  might  say 
almost  all — of  the  modern  illustrators  who  are  extremely 
popular  have  developed  a  technique.  Often  it  is  their 
technique  that  is  popular — not  their  work.  There's  Castle 
Jerome;  his  work  is  executed  too  rapidly  to  be  anything 
but  sketchy ;  frequently  his  draughtsmanship  is  so  faulty 
his  figures  are  grotesque;  but  he's  popular  because  of  his 
unusual  technique.  I  think,  outside  of  Sargent,  he  is, 
oddly  enough,  the  finest  water-colourist  now  living;  but 
he's  not  known  on  that  account  at  all.  Charles  Hanna 
Simpson,  the  best-known  of  all  the  illustrators  and  a 
great  artist  as  well,  has  a  pronounced  technique.  He  is 


128  THE  AMATEUR 

generally  imitated  but  he  is  clever  enough  to  change  his 
style  faster  than  his  imitators  can  follow.  Technique, 
style,  manner  of  presentation  would  help  you  sixty  per 
cent  of  the  way." 

"How — how  does  one  go  about  developing  a  tech 
nique  ?"  asked  Carey,  after  a  few  minutes'  pause. 

Sherman  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"There's  a  well-known  landscape  painter — I  forget  his 
name — who  spreads  two  canvases  the  same  size  with 
the  predominating  colours  in  a  woodland  scene.  He 
squeezes  the  paint  from  his  tubes  onto  the  canvases  and 
then  rubs  the  canvases  one  against  the  other  until  the 
colours  are  all  mixed  together.  While  the  paint  is  still 
wet,  he  indicates  a  brook  in  the  foreground,  or  a  gnarled 
trunk  of  a  tree  in  the  middle  distance,  or  a  suggestion  of 
blue  sky  through  the  foliage,  and  leaves  the  rest  to  the 
imagination.  That's  one  way.  That  particular  one 
has  the  advantage  of  making  two  pictures  at  the  same 
time!  Technique  is  often  nothing  more  than  a  trick. 
Bonestell  puts  his  colours  on  with  his  palette  knife;  Perry 
Maxwell  rubs  his  in  with  the  ball  of  the  thumb.  Benja 
min  Acker  works  from  photographs  instead  of  models, 
and  as  a  result  there  is  a  predominating  sharp  contrast 
between  his  shadows  and  high-lights  in  all  his  pictures, 
which  in  my  opinion  is  unfortunate  and  extremely  tire 
some.  He  has  developed  a  technique  only  suitable  to  illus 
trations  calling  for  plenty  of  action;  his  style  limits  him; 
he  will  never  do  anything  of  importance  because  he  has 
used  unfair  methods.  Some  ways  are  recognised  to  be 
legitimate ;  others  are  obviously  tricks.  A  trick  or  a  'stunt' 
will  get  you  nowhere.  Even  the  public  will  recognise  you 
to  be  a  faker,  and  you  can  not  prevent  others  from  imi 
tating  your  trick.  Of  course  if  you  can  conceal  it  it  may 
serve  you  for  a  time.  Every  one  is  wondering  about 


THE  AMATEUR  129 


Camden-Forbes  and  how  he  gets  the  effects  he  does  in 
Russian  charcoal;  some  day  his  secret  will  be  discovered 
and  that  will  be  the  end  of  him.  Develop  your  technique 
honestly  and  you  will  be  respected." 

Carey's  heart  was  aflame  as  he  walked  out  of  the  offices 
of  the  Consolidated  Press  Syndicate.  The  inspiration 
lasted  for  many  days,  during  which  he  worked  harder 
than  he  had  ever  done  in  his  life.  He  seriously  tried  to 
invent  a  technique,  although,  in  his  heart,  he  knew  that 
such  a  thing  was  the  result  of  slow  development,  or  of 
inspiration. 

At  the  end  of  his  ten  days'  trip,  Jerry  Hart  came  home. 
Carey  had  been  dreading  his  return,  fearful  of  what 
might  attend  his  presence  in  the  house  again.  Little 
seemed  to  result.  Observing  them  closely,  Carey  failed 
to  detect  any  display  of  feeling  in  either  him  or  Anna. 
She  was  once  again  her  happy,  silly,  amused  self,  laugh 
ing  in  soundless  convulsions  at  Jerry's  nonsense.  No 
pangs  of  conscience  evidently  troubled  him.  Carey  mar 
velled  at  his  composure  and  easy  assurance.  His  casual, 
flippant  manner  and  deliberate  efforts  to  make  Anna 
laugh  were  as  natural  and  as  unconcerned  as  ever. 

On  the  second  evening  after  his  return,  Jerry  did  not 
come  home  for  dinner,  and  Anna  also  was  absent  from 
the  table.  Miss  Watt  explained  that  Anna  had  been  in 
vited  to  supper  with  the  deaconesses ;  there  was  to  be  an 
affair  at  the  church,  and  every  one  was  working  for  it. 
Carey  sat  on  the  steps  after  dinner,  consuming  one  cig 
arette  after  another,  waiting  for  Anna  to  return,  his  tur 
bulent  heart  aching  with  jealousy.  At  ten-thirty,  he 
caught  sight  of  her  walking  up  Sixteenth  Street  from  the 
direction  of  St.  George's,  prim  and  sedate,  with  a  baffling 
air  of  innocence  and  artlessness.  She  was  full  of  plans 


i3o  THE  AMATEUR 


for  the  Sunday  School  entertainment,  and  Carey  began 
to  have  misgivings  as  to  the  correctness  of  his  suspicions, 
when  Jerry  appeared,  too  obviously  approaching  from 
the  opposite  direction. 

Carey,  stricken  with  the  damning  confirmation  of  what 
he  both  feared  and  wished  to  prove,  left  them  abruptly 
and  went  up  to  his  own  room,  locking  the  door  against 
a  possible  visit  from  Jerry. 

The  night  that  followed  he  never  forgot.  Hour  after 
hour  he  wrestled  with  himself,  despising  his  own  weak 
ness,  raging  in  jealous  fury  at  Jerry's  contemptibleness 
and  lightly  worn  favours,  torturing  himself  by  alternately 
wanting  and  detesting  Anna.  He  did  not  understand  his 
suddenly  aroused  animal  desires,  the  clamour  of  sex 
within  him.  He  had  been  singularly  spared  up  to  the 
present  time  this  distressing  experience  of  youth.  He 
was  sick  with  loathing  of  himself. 

Gazing  from  his  open  window  for  long  intervals  at  the 
black  shadows  of  the  shuttered  houses  across  the  street, 
the  chill  night  wind  blowing  upon  his  bare  chest  where 
his  nightgown  hung  unbuttoned  at  his  throat,  or  forcing 
his  mind  to  grasp  the  sense  from  the  pages  of  a  book  or 
magazine,  resorting  to  one  futile  subterfuge  after  an 
other,  exerting  what  will  power  was  left  him  to  distract 
his  thoughts, — all  was  of  no  avail  to  rid  him  of  the  agita 
tion  that  swept  his  heart  and  brain.  At  a  quarter  to  two, 
he  dressed  and  let  himself  noiselessly  out  of  the  house. 
He  walked  as  far  as  Stuyvesant  Square,  and  sat  for  a 
while  upon  one  of  the  deserted  benches.  It  was  very 
cold,  and  presently  he  was  forced  to  walk  again  to  keep 
warm.  The  excitement  within  him  gave  not  an  instant's 
peace.  With  shut  teeth  and  nails  biting  his  palms,  he  kept 
repeating  her  name  over  and  over:  "Anna — Anna — 
Anna."  As  he  walked  about,  he  was  frequently  ap- 


THE  AMATEUR  131 


proached  and  accosted  by  poor,  wretched  women,  as  mis 
erable  as  he.  Their  pitiable  attempt  to  simulate  high 
spirits  and  their  invitations  to  him  to  share  with  their 
poor,  wasted  brains  and  bodies  a  time  of  fun  and  friv 
olity,  sickened  him.  He  turned  away  shuddering.  He 
bought  a  drink  at  a  Third  Avenue  saloon,  and  wearily 
sought  his  room.  It  was  a  little  after  three.  He  un 
dressed  and  went  to  bed,  and  fiercely  tried  to  compel  him 
self  to  sleep.  At  four  o'clock  he  was  again  pacing  his 
room,  eight  steps  to  the  closet  door,  eight  steps  back 
again  to  the  windows.  Slowly  the  passion  within  him 
wore  him  out,  pursuing  him  until,  from  sheer  exhaustion, 
he  fell  across  his  bed  and  slept. 

He  woke  the  next  morning  to  find  big  Joe  Downer 
smiling  down  upon  him,  his  black  wide-brimmed  hat 
pushed  back  upon  his  scraggy  hair,  his  bulging,  battered 
straw  valise  beside  him  on  the  floor.  Carey  sat  up  dazed, 
bewildered,  trying  to  adjust  matters.  For  a  moment 
neither  spoke,  Joe  continuing  his  smiling  contemplation, 
Carey  returning  his  look,  his  eyes  searching  the  other's 
face  in  puzzled  inquiry.  His  head  and  back  were  aching, 
his  eyes  smarted,  his  mouth  was  hot  and  leathery. 
Abruptly  the  recollection  of  his  long  vigil  came  upon 
him.  Shakily  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Oh,  my  God,  Joe,  I'm  glad  you've  come,"  he  said,  and 
put  his  arms  about  the  other's  shoulders,  sinking  like  a 
tired  child  against  the  rough  texture  of  his  coat. 

"Well,  kid!  Well,  kid!"  exclaimed  Joe,  "why,  what's 
the  trouble?  I've  been  watching  you  asleep  there  for 
almost  five  minutes.  They  told  me  to  come  right  up.  I 
only  got  in  half  an  hour  ago." 

"How's  mother?"  asked  Carey,  without  raising  his 
head. 


132  THE  AMATEUR 

"Fine.  I  tried  to  persuade  her  to  come.  I  told  her 
we'd  surprise  you.  But  she  said  she  was  afraid  of  the 
trip — of  the  weather — of  this  thing  and  that.  You  know 
your  mother,  Carey." 

Carey  was  finding  too  much  comfort  in  the  heartening 
circle  of  Joe's  arm  to  make  an  effort  to  reply.  Pres 
ently,  he  said: 

"Fin  all  in  this  morning.  I've  got  a  splitting  head, — • 
neuralgia  in  my  neck.  I  had  a  hell  of  a  night  last  night. 
.  .  .  I'll  be  all  right  as  soon  as  I  shoot  some  bromo  into 
me." 

"Been  hitting  her  up?"  asked  Joe. 

Carey  pulled  away  from  him  a  moment,  an  indignant 
denial  upon  his  lips.  Then,  at  the  thought  of  what  an 
explanation  entailed,  he  nodded,  and  slipped  back  upon 
the  bed,  his  elbows  upon  his  knees,  thrusting  his  long 
fingers  through  the  tangle  of  his  yellow  hair. 

Joe  regarded  him  silently,  compassionately,  lovingly. 
Carey  knew  that  Joe  had  that  humble,  dog  look  in  his 
eyes  that  had  always  irritated  him. 

He  jumped  up,  drawing  his  bath  robe  around  him,  and 
turned  toward  the  door. 

"I'll  take  a  quick  bath,  Joe,  and  be  back  in  a  jiffy.  Un 
pack  your  duds  and  put  'em  where  you  can  find  room. 
You  know, — it's  just  the  same  as  when  we  were  living 
together." 

He  dropped  the  door  knob  a  moment  and  came  toward 
the  other,  putting  a  hand  on  either  of  Joe's  shoulders. 

"Joe,"  he  said,  his  voice  husky  and  constrained,  "I 
never  was  so  glad  to  see  any  one  in  all  my  life.  You 
couldn't  have  timed  your  visit  better.  You're  like  the 
Rock  of  Gibraltar,  Joe.  .  .  .  I'll  don  my  Broadway 
trappings  and  we'll  have  a  grand  old  time  doing  New 
York!" 


THE  AMATEUR  133 


And  a  very  memorable  time  it  was — a  fortnight  in  both 
their  lives  of  irresponsibility  and  happiness,  supplying 
memories  of  theatrical  orgies,  jolly  midnight  suppers,  and 
long,  light-hearted  days  roaming  about  the  city — which 
each  one  was  long  to  cherish.  From  Joe  Downer's  shoul 
ders  a  mantle  of  repression  seemed  to  drop,  and  Carey, 
giving  himself  entirely  into  Joe's  hands,  opening  his  heart 
to  him,  discussing  the  emotions  that  bothered  him,  win 
nowing  away  the  morbidness  of  his  thoughts,  felt  like  a 
foul  rag  washed  clean.  During  Joe's  visit,  he  lost  his 
interest  in  Jerry  and  Anna  completely  and,  being  rarely 
home  at  meal  times,  saw  but  little  of  them.  He  told  Joe 
about  the  whole  affair  and  its  malign  effect  upon  himself. 
Joe  was  unable  to  give  advice  that  could  be  of  any 
possible  help  to  Carey,  but  the  boy  anticipated  this  before 
he  told  him.  Joe  always  acted  like  a  sharp  breeze  on 
the  foggy  atmosphere  of  Carey's  mind.  His  vision 
cleared,  distortions  vanished.  Whatever  Carey  might 
decide  to  do,  Joe's  abiding  faith  in  him  never  faltered. 
Joe  would  reply  to  Carey's  involved  diagnosis  of  his  state 
of  mind: 

"Well,  kid,  that  way  of  thinking  won't  bring  you  any 
where.  Why  don't  you  go  away  for  a  while  ?  Can't  you 
make  up  your  mind  to  think  about  something  else  ?  Why 
don't  you  change  your  boarding  place?" 


CHAPTER  IX 


AFTER  Joe's  departure,  Carey  devoted  himself  with 
grim  determination  to  his  Art.  At  a  second-hand 
hook  store  he  bought  up  some  old  copies  of  the  weekly 
published  by  the  Consolidated  Press  Syndicate  and  read  a 
number  of  the  stories.  Two  of  these  appealed  to  him, 
the  illustrations  for  which  struck  him  at  the  same  time 
as  particularly  inadequate,  and  he  proceeded  to  make 
his  own  pictures  for  them.  Whether  it  was  Sherman's 
encouragement  or  the  wholesome  influence  of  Joe's  visit 
that  supplied  the  incentive,  Carey  felt  that  he  never  had 
done  better  work.  The  compositions  came  easily  and 
his  drawing  was  sure,  and  seemed  to  be  less  tight  than  it 
had  ever  been.  One  set  of  illustrations  he  worked  up 
in  Russian  charcoal,  the  other  in  wash.  He  was  for 
tunate  in  securing  the  right  models  as  well.  He  hired  the 
old  organ-grinder  who  invariably  paid  the  boarding  house 
its  Saturday  visit,  and  pressed  McNeil  as  well  as  one  of 
the  Fillmore  children  into  model  service.  His  work 
thrilled  him.  He  rose  early  to  get  his  monograms  finished 
and  out  of  the  way  that  he  might  begin  on  his  illustrations 
the  sooner.  He  applied  himself  to  it  as  long  as  the  after 
noon  light  lasted,  and  in  the  evening  sat  before  his  draw 
ing  board,  until  ten  and  sometimes  eleven  o'clock,  touch 
ing  up  his  day's  work  here  and  there  where  he  dared, 
studying  what  he  had  already  finished,  determining  to- 

134 


THE  AMATEUR  135 


morrow's  plans.  Just  before  he  turned  out  the  gas, 
he  always  arranged  the  drawing  he  was  at  work  upon 
so  that  it  would  catch  the  best  morning  light  and  be  the 
first  thing  his  eye  rested  upon  when  he  awoke.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  was  able  to  get  at  that  moment  a  fresher 
point  of  view  than  at  any  other  time  during  the  day. 

He  decided  to  do  three  pictures  for  each  story.  The 
set  for  the  first  gave  him  no  trouble  at  all ;  but  the  second 
supplied  difficulties.  It  called  for  one  composition  with 
three  women ;  and  this  Carey  blocked  in  five  times  before 
it  seemed  to  promise  to  come  right.  Then  the  right 
models  failed  him  entirely.  He  spent  hours  in  Stuyvesant 
Square  surreptitiously  sketching  the  nursemaids,  selecting 
those  whose  attitudes  came  nearest  to  fitting  his  compo 
sition.  In  desperation  he  even  called  up  Gregory  Shilling 
on  the  telephone,  to  ask  him  where  satisfactory  profes 
sional  models  could  be  had.  The  artist  was  not  in  town, 
however,  and  Carey  faced  the  prospect  of  failing  to  com 
plete  the  pictures  for  the  second  story  and  taking  Sher 
man  the  ones  for  the  first  alone,  when  it  occurred  to  him 
that  Anna  might  be  willing  to  pose.  He  had  seen  very 
little  of  her  since  Joe's  departure.  Being  engrossed  in 
his  work,  he  had  thought  of  nothing  else.  Jerry  was 
again  away.  He  had  been  gone  about  a  week.  How 
much  his  one-time  companion  felt  he  suspected,  Carey 
did  not  know,  but  others  in  the  house  observed  there  was 
a  breach  between  them,  and  Carey  was  sure  that  Jerry 
himself  recognised  the  fact  that  their  friendship  was  at 
an  end.  That  his  former  chum  made  no  effort  to 
straighten  matters  out  and  re-establish  their  old  intimacy, 
seemed  proof  that  he  feared  Carey  was  somehow  aware 
of  his  criminal  behaviour,  and  that  any  overtures  on  his 
part  toward  renewing  their  old  companionship  would  be 
useless. 


136  THE  AMATEUR 


Anna  readily  agreed  to  pose  for  Carey,  on  the  under 
standing  that  the  model-hire  he  offered  her  should  go  to 
a  church  fund  in  which  she  was  deeply  interested.  She 
proved  an  excellent  model,  and  Carey  began  to  make 
rapid  progress  with  his  work. 

Faintly  at  first,  then  with  increasing  intensity,  the  old 
physical  attraction  of  the  girl  came  back  upon  him.  The 
posture  he  asked  her  to  assume  demanded  a  half  sitting, 
half  reclining  attitude.  She  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the 
couch,  her  chin  upon  the  heel  of  her  palm,  her  elbow 
thrust  into  a  pile  of  cushions,  the  other  hand  resting 
lightly  upon  her  hip.  She  possessed  undeniable  grace 
and,  as  Carey  studied  her,  drawing  in  the  lines  of  her 
figure,  the  passion  he  had  struggled  against  once  more 
seized  upon  him. 

He  was  greatly  tempted  to  prolong  the  sittings.  Anna, 
silent,  still,  her  face  and  body  in  repose,  was  infinitely 
more  attractive  and  alluring  than  Anna  giggling,  hoy- 
denish,  betraying  the  vacuity  of  her  mind.  As  the  min 
utes  passed  one  by  one,  a  spell  seemed  to  emanate  from 
her  and  enfold  him  in  a  revery  of  sensuous  intoxication. 
Sometimes  long  intervals  would  elapse  without  his  adding 
anything  to  the  picture.  When  Anna  would  abruptly  sit 
up  to  rest,  it  suggested  to  Carey  the  destruction  of  some 
thing  beautiful  with  attending  ugly  noises.  Something 
repulsive  interposed — loveliness  vanished.  He  used  to 
hope  that  Anna  would  not  speak  during  these  intermis 
sions.  Until  she  assumed  her  pose  again,  he  applied  him 
self  closely  to  his  work.  She  always  did  commit  herself, 
however,  invariably  vapid,  or  she  would  come  round  be 
hind  his  chair  to  look  at  his  work  and  exclaim : 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  look  a  bit  like  me,  Mr.  Williams!" 

Carey's  conscience  told  him,  clamouring  at  first,  that 
this  sexual  thought-indulgence  was  sure  to  have  a  perni- 


THE  AMATEUR  137 


cious  effect.  He  held  long  arguments  with  himself  about 
it,  telling  himself  that  it  could  only  last  until  the  drawings 
were  completed,  and  assuring  himself,  if  it  continued  to 
torment  him,  he  would  move  to  another  boarding  place. 
After  one  of  Anna's  visits  to  his  room  he  would  feel 
utterly  exhausted.  It  was  all  wrong,  unnatural  and  mor 
bid.  Gazing  at  his  own  reflection  in  the  mirror,  he  would 
burst  out  disgustedly  at  the  image : 

"Faugh, — you're  a  beast,  Carey  Williams!  A  dirty 
beast!" 

It  was  one  day  when  Carey  was  putting  the  finishing 
touches  on  the  last  of  the  figures  for  which  Anna  was 
posing  that  the  girl  suddenly  crumpled  up  and  fell,  a  sob 
bing,  quivering  little  heap  upon  the  couch.  She  had 
been  standing  gazing  out  of  the  window,  one  hand 
upon  a  chair  back,  one  knee  upon  the  couch.  At  first 
Carey  thought  that  the  strain  of  holding  the  pose  had 
been  too  much  for  her.  Uncertainly  he  rose.  Anna  gave 
herself  up  utterly  to  her  grief,  her  hands  twisting  and 
knotting,  her  body  convulsed  with  sobbing,  while,  be 
tween  her  gasping  breaths,  she  moaned  piteously.  Carey 
was  frightened.  He  hurriedly  poured  a  glass  of  water 
and,  kneeling  beside  the  couch,  tried  to  persuade  her  to 
drink  it.  But  Anna  seemed  unable  to  hear  him.  She  had 
collapsed  as  though  something  within  her  had  suddenly 
broken.  Her  complete  abandon  was  almost  shameless. 
Carey  felt  he  could  not  bear  to  witness  it,  and  started  for 
the  door  with  a  vague  idea  of  calling  Mrs.  Fillmore  or 
Miss  Watt,  when,  between  Anna's  sobs,  he  caught  a  tone 
of  supplicating  entreaty  and  the  words : 

"My  Jerry!" 

A  surge  of  relief  and  sympathy  swept  over  him.  In 
stinctively  he  returned  to  where  she  lay,  and  sat  down 


138  THE  AMATEUR 

beside  her,  awkwardly  but  gently  stroking  her  tumbled 
hair. 

"I  know,"  he  said  to  her,  "I  know  all  about  it,  Anna 
dearest!  Don't  cry,  my  darling.  He's  not  worth  your 
tears." 

The  endearments  sprang  too  readily  to  his  lips.  The 
contact  of  his  hand  upon  her  neck  set  his  heart  pound 
ing;  his  fingers  trembled  in  his  excitement.  Closer  he 
bent  over  her,  whispering  his  words  of  comfort  in  her 
ear. 

"Anna,  my  darling.  Don't  cry  about  him.  He's  a 
skunk,  Anna.  I'll  take  care  of  you — don't  cry  that  way, 
dear — can't  you  stop  ?  Oh,  Anna !  Don't — don't,  dearest, 
— I  love  you  so !" 

Incoherencies,  words — a  torrent  of  murmuring  poured 
from  him.  His  eyes  brimmed  with  the  hot  tears  of  his 
sympathy.  He  put  his  arms  about  her  and  drew  her 
to  him.  Presently  his  clumsy,  soothing  caresses  had 
their  effect  and  Anna  lay  quietly  in  his  arms,  her  body 
shaken  now  and  then  with  spasmodic  quivers,  her  wadded 
handkerchief  pressed  against  her  eyes,  her  lips  trembling 
with  each  intake  of  breath. 

Soon  she  had  gained  sufficient  control  of  herself  to 
whisper : 

"He's  not  coming  back,  any  more !" 

Abject  grief  once  more  possessed  her,  and  Carey,  his 
heart  torn  with  the  surge  of  pity  that  swept  over  him, 
found  himself  in  a  mad  excess  of  emotion,  kissing  her 
cheek,  her  hand,  her  forehead,  drawing  her  limp  and 
unresponsive  body  to  him,  crushing  her  in  his  arms. 

The  force  of  his  embrace  hurt  her  and  she  cried  out, 
protesting.  Carey  released  her,  his  senses  swimming,  his 
breath  coming  in  short  gasps,  his  whole  body  shaking. 
He  buried  his  face  in  the  hot,  moist  palms  of  his  hands; 


THE  AMATEUR  139 


and  so  the  two  remained  for  some  time,  until  Anna  began 
to  speak  again. 

"He  wrote  Mamma  Muggins  to  send  his  things.  He 
said  he  was  going  to  live  in  Detroit.  .  .  ."  She  flung  up 
her  head  suddenly.  "I — I  won't  give  him  up!"  she  said 
between  shut  teeth. 

Once  more  she  gave  way  to  her  grief. 

That  she  should  desire  some  one  else,  when  she  seemed 
so  infinitely  desirable  herself,  was  maddening  to  Carey. 
He  was  full  of  a  great,  overwhelming  pity  for  her.  Poor 
old  Anna !  At  the  moment  it  seemed  to  him  that  no  sacri 
fice  on  his  part  would  be  too  great  to  save  her  from  this 
pain  and  sorrow.  The  hot  blinding  tears  sprang  into  his 
eyes.  With  a  bursting  sob,  he  turned  to  her  again,  bury 
ing  his  face  against  her  shoulder,  trying  to  gather  her  in 
his  arms. 

But  Anna  seemed  unconscious  of  his  emotion.  She 
suffered  his  caresses  as  though  they  had  been  bestowed 
by  a  child.  They  were  inconsequential.  Every  now  and 
then  her  body  shook  with  a  long,  quivering  sigh.  She 
remained  quiet,  her  eyes  closed,  one  hand  pressing 
against  them  the  little  wadded  handkerchief. 

Suddenly  there  were  steps  outside  the  door,  and  a 
knock,  followed  by  Mrs.  Charley  Fillmore's  voice: 

"Mr.  Williams!  ...  Mr.  Williams t  .  .  .  Here's  a 
telegram  for  you." 

For  an  instant,  Carey  and  Anna  gazed  at  one  another, 
their  eyes  widening.  Then  both  of  them  struggled  to 
their  feet,  Anna  busy  with  her  hair  and  disordered  dress, 
Carey  rubbing  his  tear  stained  face  upon  the  sleeves  of 
his  shirt,  pulling  his  cravat  about  his  collar  into  place. 
But,  before  he  could  find  his  voice  to  answer  Mrs.  Fill- 
more,  there  came  again  her  summons,  the  knob  turned, 
the  door  was  pushed  open,  and  Mrs.  Fillmore  peered  in. 


140  THE  AMATEUR 


"Mr.  Williams?  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought 
you  might  have  gone.  .  .  ." 

At  this  point  her  eyes  rested  upon  Anna.  Swiftly  she 
took  in  the  girl's  agitation  and  the  disarray  of  her  hair 
and  clothes.  Carey,  like  a  sparrow  caught  by  a  snake, 
watched  her,  dumb  and  fascinated,  as  her  eye  travelled 
with  lightning  speed  to  him,  to  the  couch,  back  to  Anna, 
and  finally  to  him.  He  saw  the  face  of  Charley's  wife 
grow  white  and  red,  and  then  suddenly  sharpen  like  a 
rat's,  her  eyes  closing  to  half  slits,  her  nostrils  faintly 
quivering.  The  silence  of  all  three  was  sufficient  to 
arouse  in  the  most  guileless  of  minds  a  suspicion  that 
something  was  wrong.  Mrs.  Fillmore  was  the  first  to 
recover  herself.  She  approached  Carey  and  held  out  the 
yellow  envelope  of  the  telegram. 

"This  came — just  now/5  she  said  in  a  voice  obviously 
controlled.  "I  brought  it  up  myself.'* 

"Thank  you,"  Carey  murmured,  taking  it  from  her. 

Without  further  comment,  the  woman  turned  and 
left  the  room.  Anna  bowed  her  head  upon  the  marble 
mantelpiece,  her  shoulders  convulsed  with  silent  weeping. 
Even  at  that  constrained  moment,  Carey  had  time  to  think 
how  much  alike  she  was  in  mirth  and  grief, — inarticulate, 
shaking  silently.  He  went  to  her,  his  arms  outstretched, 
but,  at  the  first  touch  of  his  fingers,  she  shrank  from  him 
and  went  swiftly  out  of  the  room. 

Carey  followed  her  into  the  hall  and  watched  her 
down  the  stairs  until  she  disappeared,  and  he  heard  the 
abrupt  closing  of  a  door.  His  head  was  still  swimming  as 
he  turned  back  into  his  own  room,  gazing  vacantly  at  the 
telegram  in  his  hand.  Mechanically  he  held  the  envelope 
to  the  light  and  tore  off  a  strip  at  one  end,  shaking  out 
the  enclosure.  As  he  spread  out  the  yellow  sheet  of 
paper  with  its  familiar  printed  heading,  he  was  first 


THE  AMATEUR  141 


aware  of  the  signature:     "Mother."     Then  he  read  the 
message  in  the  round  hand  of  the  operator: 

My  dearest  boy,  your  father  has  passed  on.  I 
want  to  see  you.  I  am  ill  and  lonely.  Come  home 
and  let  us  mourn  him  together. 

Mother. 


CHAPTER  X 


T  T  was  after  one  o'clock  when  Carey  got  back  to  the 
*  boarding  house.  He  had  walked  straight  out  Fifth 
Avenue  to  One  Hundred  and  Tenth  Street,  and  then  had 
retraced  his  steps  home.  With  the  exception  of  half  an 
hour  at  a  Childs  restaurant  for  his  dinner,  he  had  been 
walking  steadily  since  five  in  the  afternoon.  The  first 
snow  of  the  year  was  falling  and,  to  Carey's  unfamiliar 
senses,  it  was  wonderfully  exhilarating.  It  gave  him  a 
delightful  thrill  to  shuffle  his  feet  in  the  drifts  and  to  turn 
his  face  upward  to  catch  the  softly  falling  flakes  upon 
forehead,  cheeks,  mouth  and  chin.  He  enjoyed  eating  it, 
too, — scraping  off  upon  his  gloved  forefinger  little  piles 
and  mounds  of  it  from  the  iron  fences  where  it  gathered. 
But,  in  spite  of  the  excitement  of  the  snow,  he  was 
aware  of  a  profound  feeling  of  depression.  It  was  not 
due  to  any  sense  of  grief  at  the  thought  of  his  father's 
death.  He  had  changed  to  a  white  shirt  and  put  on  a 
black  tie  before  he  left  the  house,  merely  because  it 
seemed  the  thing  to  do.  The  idea  that  his  father  was 
dead  appealed  to  his  sense  of  the  dramatic.  He  wanted 
to  grieve  about  it.  He  tried  to  recall  the  days  of  his 
boyhood,  when  his  father  had  carried  him  on  his  shoul 
ders  round  the  library  table,  singing: 

"I'm  Cap-tain  Jinks  of  the  Horse  Marines, 
I  feed  my  horse  on  corn  and  beans." 
142 


THE  AMATEUR  143 


But  it  brought  no  sense  of  affection.  He  could  re 
member  many  instances  when  his  father  had  been  good 
to  him.  He  had  a  sincere  admiration  for  his  father. 
To  Carey  he  appeared  a  fine  standard  of  a  man.  But, 
with  every  tender  memory  of  him,  there  were  many  more 
of  his  severity  and  harshness,  particularly  the  one  when 
the  boy,  returning  home  noisily  from  school,  had  en 
countered  the  gaunt,  tragic  figure  of  his  father  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  one  hand  catching  his  scant  night 
gown  together  at  the  throat,  the  other  holding  the  drip 
ping  ice-cloth. 

His  father  was  dead.  Carey  was  now  a  half-orphan. 
With  the  knowledge  of  the  world  that  his  six  months' 
residence  in  New  York  had  given  him,  Carey, speculated 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  upon  the  morality  of  his 
father's  remarriage.  He  had  heard  that  she  was  a  woman 
with  whose  name  much  scandal  had  been  connected,  and 
that  she  had  travelled  with  his  father  as  his  wife  before 
the  divorce  had  been  granted.  He  knew  she  was  a 
divorcee  when  his  father  met  her.  Beyond  that  there 
was  nothing  positive.  Neither  he  nor  his  mother  had 
heard  directly  from  his  father  for  ten  years. 

But  the  sense  of  depression  that  filled  him  as  he  scuf 
fled  the  snow  upon  the  pavement  had  nothing  to  do  with 
his  father, — nor  with  Anna — poor,  silly,  loving  Anna. 
His  thoughts  went  back  to  their  interrupted  afternoon. 
There  would,  of  course,  be  no  more  sittings.  It  did  not 
matter,  as  the  drawings  were  practically  done,  and  a  day 
or  so  of  work  would  finish  them  completely.  He  could 
show  them  to  Sherman  any  time.  The  news  of  his 
father's  death  had  somehow  shaken  off  the  effect  that 
Anna  had  had  upon  him.  Comparatively,  it  seemed  a 
trifling  matter. 

There  was  little  doubt  in  his  mind  that  Mrs.  Charley 


144  THE  AMATEUR 


Fillmore  would  try  to  put  as  evil  a  construction  upon 
the  situation  as  possible.  They'd  take  it  out  on  Anna. 
Poor  old  Anna!  As  if  she  didn't  have  enough  to  bear! 
What  a  contemptible  cad  Jerry  was !  Carey's  fists  knotted 
inside  the  pockets  of  his  great  coat  as  he  strode  along, 
and  he  shut  his  teeth  fiercely. 

He  stopped  under  a  street  lamp  and  gazed  up  at  the 
light  through  the  blur  of  the  white  flakes.  Slowly  it 
came  to  him  that  the  weight  upon  his  heart  was  there 
because  he  must  leave  New  York, — New  York  that  he 
had  so  hated  when  he  first  walked  its  streets,  the  great, 
crouching  beast  that  had  seemed  to  be  lying  in  wait  to 
destroy  him.  The  city  had  become  infinitely  dear  to  him, 
— it  was  a  place  for  work,  a  place  where  success  came 
readily;  and  he  was  on  the  threshold  of  success;  he 
felt  it.  The  work  he  had  done  for  Sherman  he  knew  was 
good.  And  now,  to  let  it  slip  through  his  fingers  just 
when  he  felt  so  sure  of  it.  For  a  moment  he  considered 
writing  his  mother  and  telling  her  how  impossible  it 
would  be  for  him  to  leave  New  York  at  just  this  time, — 
leaving  her  to  "mourn"  his  father  alone.  He  had  his 
own  life  to  live;  it  was  unfair,  it  was  unjust,  to  ask  him 
to  throw  away  this  great  chance  that  was  all  but  within 
his  grasp. 

He  gave  this  thought  but  a  passing  moment's  considera 
tion.  He  could  not  do  it.  His  mother  was  his  mother, 
and  if  she  fancied  his  presence  would  be  a  comfort  to  her 
at  this  time,  it  was  obligatory  for  him  to  go  to  her.  It 
was  characteristic  of  her,  he  thought,  with  some  bitter 
ness,  as  he  turned  homeward,  that  she  expected  him  to 
finance  his  railroad  fare.  Where  was  he  to  get  a  hundred 
dollars  to  take  him  home?  He  would  have  to  borrow 


THE  AMATEUR  145 


from  poor  old  Joe  Downer  again — Joe,  to  whom  he  al 
ready  owed  twice  the  amount ! 

He  was  considering  this  when  he  reached  the  board 
ing  house.  The  windows  were  all  dark;  the  only  light 
was  in  the  hall,  where  the  gas  in  the  ornate  chandelier 
had  been  turned  down  to  a  tiny  bead.  As  he  climbed  the 
stairs,  he  realised  he  was  tired  in  both  limb  and  mind. 
The  creaking  of  the  treads  beneath  his  feet  sounded,  in 
the  dead  silence  of  the  house,  like  the  cracking  of  whips. 
Involuntarily  he  paused  by  Anna's  door.  The  faint 
radiance  from  the  subdued  gas  jet  in  the  hall  on  the 
second  landing  cast  a  quavering  reflection  on  the  wall. 
In  the  bathroom  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall  an  intermit 
tent  drip  fell  from  the  leaky  faucet  into  the  half -filled 
basin.  The  dropping  noise  of  the  water  sounded  very 
musical;  it  was  like  a  tune:  plop-pleep-plat-plum-plat- 
pleep. 

Carey  reached  his  room  and  lit  the  Welsbach  burner. 
Propped  against  a  book  on  the  marble  mantel  was  an 
envelope  addressed  to  him.  Tearing  it  open,  he  was 
surprised  to  find  it  was  from  Anna. 

Thank  you  for  all  you've  done  for  me.  I  was 
not  indifferent  to  your  love,  even  if  I  could  not 
return  it.  You  have  been  very  kind, — my  only 
earthly  friend.  Jesus  forgave  Mary  Magdalene, 
and  I  put  my  faith  in  Him.  May  we  meet  in 
Heaven. 

ANNA. 

In  great  red  flaming  letters  there  sprang  before  Carey's 
wide-staring  eyes  one  hideous  word.  He  read  the  note 
again  and  again,  the  note  paper  rattling  in  his  trembling 
fingers.  When  and  how?  The  passing  minutes  might 


146  THE  AMATEUR 

be  precious.  There  was  always  the  East  River  in  which 
so  many  had  found  oblivion.  There  was  poison — and 
he  had  heard  of  antidotes  that  had  saved  many  a  self- 
destroyer  at  the  last  minute.  His  mind  was  like  a  fright 
ened  rabbit.  He  found  time  in  those  dreadful  moments 
of  suspense  to  search  his  soul  for  whatever  responsibility 
for  this  crime  might  be  laid  at  his  own  door.  He  had 
sinned  in  his  heart  against  the  unhappy  girl,  but  no  more 
than  that.  Nevertheless,  he  felt  guilty.  The  thought  of 
flight,  of  getting  away,  silently,  at  once, — before  any  one 
knew,  occurred  to  him.  The  impulse  was  instinctive. 

But  what  to  do?  What  to  do?  He  kept  repeating  the 
words,  his  dry  palms  pressed  against  his  cheeks. 

He  opened  the  door  of  his  room  and  leaned  over  the 
banisters,  gazing  down  into  the  black  pit  of  the  stair 
well.  Where  had  she  gone  to  do  it?  How  had  she  set 
about  it?  A  wave  of  weakness  swept  over  him;  he 
gripped  the  rail  to  steady  himself.  The  muscles  of  his 
diaphragm  heaved  convulsively.  He  set  his  teeth  fiercely, 
trying  to  steady  his  nerves,  to  compel  himself  to  meet  the 
situation,  to  do  the  wisest,  the  most  expeditious  thing. 

From  below  came  the  musical  drip  of  water  from  the 
leaky  faucet  in  the  bathroom:  plop-pleep-plat-plop-plip. 
Silently  he  stole  down  the  stairs  to  the  next  landing  and 
stood  beside  Anna's  door.  The  house  was  very  still.  An 
early  milk  wagon  hurried  by  in  the  street,  the  cans  rattling. 
In  the  stillness,  he  could  faintly  hear  the  subdued,  hoarse 
breathing  of  a  sleeper  on  the  floor  below.  Without  pre 
meditation,  he  tried  the  handle  of  Anna's  door  and  gently 
pushed  it  open.  He  was  trembling  violently. 

"Anna!"  he  whispered,  and  then  a  little  louder, 
"Anna!" 

The  room  was  pitch  dark  and  very  close ;  the  shade  was 
drawn ;  no  light  entered  from  the  street.  For  some  time 


THE  AMATEUR  147 


Carey  stood  gazing  into  the  utter  blackness  of  the  room, 
his  hand  upon  the  door  knob.  Again  the  feeling  of  great 
weakness  possessed  him.  As  he  put  his  hand  to  his  head 
to  steady  himself,  the  door  knob,  released  from  his  grasp, 
sprang  back  to  position  with  a  sharp  click.  The  sound 
brought  his  heart  knocking  into  his  throat.  His  knees 
shook  under  him.  The  fear  that  he  was  going  to  faint 
suddenly  brought  the  needed  strength.  He  fumbled  in 
his  vest  pocket  for  a  match,  and  lit  it  by  drawing  it 
sharply  along  the  leg  of  his  trousers. 

Often,  as  he  had  passed  Anna's  door,  in  going  up  or 
down  stairs,  it  had  been  open.  He  was  familiar  enough 
with  the  appointments;  it  was  a  hall  bed-room,  the  same 
size  as  Doctor  Floherty's,  next  to  his  own  on  the  floor 
above.  The  bed  or  couch  was  behind  the  door.  A  wal 
nut  dresser  faced  it,  its  back  to  the  opposite  wall.  This 
was  covered  with  vases  and  toilet  articles,  pin  trays  and 
two  or  three  tiny  cushions,  while,  from  the  supports  of 
the  mirror,  hung  beribboned  favours  and  embroidered 
bags  for  combings,  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  little 
feminine  articles.  A  small  oval,  marble-topped  table  was 
in  the  window  recess,  and  several  brightly  illumined  Scrip 
ture  texts  in  square  shiny  black  frames  adorned  the  walls. 

As  he  raised  the  quavering  flame  above  his  head,  the 
dresser  and  the  marble-topped  table  first  disengaged 
themselves  from  the  darkness.  Across  a  rocking  chair 
lay  some  white  underclothing,  neatly  arranged.  The  bed 
was  empty ;  the  tasselled  portiere  that  served  as  a  couch- 
cover  was  evenly  folded  across  its  foot. 

There  was  no  one  there.  The  match-flame  flared  up 
and  went  out.  As  the  darkness  shut  down  upon  him, 
Carey  staggered  out  into  the  hall  and  began  to  scream. 
In  that  last  flicker  of  the  match,  he  had  seen  her  where 


148  THE  AMATEUR 


she  hung  from  the  top  hinge  of  the  door,  the  congested 
face  and  the  staring  eye-balls  on  a  level  with  his  own. 

There  followed  lights  and  many  voices,  figures  in 
night  robes  and  dressing  gowns,  the  banging  of  doors  and 
hurried  feet  upon  the  stairs.  The  hall  was  choked  with 
pushing  people  who  crowded  past  him  where  he  knelt 
sobbing  against  the  stair-rail.  The  clamour  of  voices 
rose  louder  and  louder.  Cries  of  "Doctor — Doctor"  dis 
engaged  themselves  from  the  hideous  confusion.  Some 
one — it  was  Washburn — was  asking  questions.  Above 
the  hideous  racket  he  heard  Miss  Watt's  shrill  wailing. 
Mrs.  Charley  Fillmore,  seated  half  way  down  the  stairs, 
was  trying  to  quiet  her  two  little  daughters.  The  tumult 
surged  around  him, — the  hub-bub  of  it  rose  and  fell  and 
rose  again,  breaking  out  afresh  after  every  lull.  Pres 
ently  McNeil  and  French  were  with  him,  the  former's 
tousled  hair  falling  into  his  eyes,  the  collar  of  his  night 
shirt  sticking  out  above  his  overcoat.  Between  them  he 
went  up-stairs,  their  arms  about  him.  Then  he  was  in 
his  room  and  Doctor  Floherty  was  urging  some  whiskey 
upon  him.  After  that,  there  came  suddenly  back  upon 
him  the  memory  of  that  awful  face  and  the  bulging  eye 
balls. 

It  was  an  unending  night.  People  came  into  his 
room  and  stared  at  him  and  asked  him  questions.  The 
mantle  in  the  Welsbach  burner  glowed  fiercely,  the  top  of 
the  cone  a  sooty  black,  like  the  mark  from  a  dirty  thumb. 
Then  he  was  alone  and  the  room  was  dark.  Below  he 
could  hear  the  sound  of  women's  weeping  and,  in  the  ad 
joining  room,  the  subdued  murmur  of  men's  voices.  As 
he  turned  upon  his  pillow,  there  in  the  blackness,  so  near 
his  own,  he  saw  again  that  face  of  agony  and  the  white 
eye-balls,  like  spools  starting  from  the  head.  Springing 


THE  AMATEUR  149 


from  his  bed,  he  blundered  blindly  out  into  the  hall,  and 
burst  open  the  door  of  McNeil's  room.  There  were 
several  there,  sitting  about  under  the  light,  all  looking  at 
him. 

"I  can't  stand  it — being  alone !"  he  cried. 

"Here's  something  that  will  fix  you  up,  Carey,"  a  voice 
said.  He  drank  the  whiskey,  and  then  he  saw  they  had 
all  been  drinking  it.  Their  chairs  were  grouped  about 
the  rickety  little  Japanese  table  on  which  the  bottle  and 
glasses  stood. 

"Feel  better,  boy?" 

It  was  Durrant. 

"Here,  put  this  bath-robe  on  and  sit  here  awhile  with 
us.  We're  all  shaken  up  over  this  thing." 

Carey  gazed  about  from  face  to  face. 

"Where's  Doctor  Floherty?"  he  asked. 

No  one  answered  him,  but  French  made  a  downward 
motion  with  his  finger,  and  Carey,  who  caught  his  mean 
ing,  sank  shuddering  into  his  chair.  He  found  it  impos 
sible  to  follow  their  conversation,  and  lay  back  weak  and 
with  closed  eyes  while  the  talk  went  on. 

Presently,  every  one  got  up,  and  Durrant,  leaning  over 
him,  said: 

"It's  morning,  Carey.  We're  going  over  to  the  West 
minster  for  breakfast.  Better  get  your  clothes  on  and 
come  along  with  us." 

In  a  daze  he  dressed,  and  in  a  daze  he  followed  them, 
and  in  a  daze  he  lived  through  the  events  that  followed. 
There  was  a  visit  from  the  coroner,  and  later  the  funeral 
at  St.  George's.  He  remembered  afterwards  that  he 
had  broken  down  while  the  rector  was  speaking  about 
the  girl  who  had  lived  her  life  for  others.  It  was  the 
recollection  of  that  first  Sunday  they  had  gone  to  church 
together  to  listen  to  this  same  man  preach  that  upset  his 


150  THE  AMATEUR 


control.  After  the  ceremony,  he  and  Durrant,  McNeil, 
French  and  Doctor  Floherty  stopped  at  a  saloon  to  get 
a  drink.  Being  of  their  party,  he  unconsciously  followed 
them ;  but  it  struck  him  as  both  untimely  and  wanting  in 
respect  to  her  whose  last  rites  they  had  just  attended. 
Durrant  had  been  a  pall  bearer  and,  in  withdrawing  his 
hand  from  his  coat  pocket,  one  of  the  white  cotton  gloves 
he  had  worn  fell  out  upon  the  marble  floor.  It  shocked 
Carey  unspeakably. 

Carey  dreaded  the  explanation  he  knew  he  should  be 
called  upon  to  make.  He  was  now  all  eagerness  to  start 
for  home;  impatiently  he  waited  for  Joe's  response  to 
his  telegram  for  funds.  First  to  French  and  McNeil  and 
Doctor  Floherty,  and  later,  in  a  painful  interview  with 
Miss  Watt,  he  accounted  for  his  presence  in  Anna's  room 
that  night,  and  showed  her  Anna's  message  of  farewell. 
He  openly  confessed  to  them  his  affection  for  her,  and 
was  obliged  to  speak  of  Jerry  Hart's  criminal  behaviour. 
It  was  tale-bearing,  and  Carey  cordially  disliked  the  role. 
It  seemed  like  defaming  the  virtue  of  one  who  could  no 
longer  defend  herself.  And  yet  there  was  no  other  course 
open  to  him.  Silence  would  have  implied  his  own  guilt, 
and,  by  taking  her  life,  Anna  had  admitted  hers.  It 
seemed  outrageous  that  Jerry,  the  offender,  should  escape 
without  bearing  even  a  part  of  the  sorrow  that  he  alone 
had  brought  upon  that  house.  Carey  determined  to 
write  him  and  tell  him  what  they  thought  of  him. 

Carey  had  seen  little  Jane  Boardman  at  the  funeral. 
Their  meeting  had  taken  place  on  the  steps  of  St.  George's 
as  both  were  entering  the  church.  There  had  been  a  rare 
look  of  sympathy  and  understanding  in  her  eyes  as  he 
held  her  hand  a  moment. 

"Come  and  see  me,  some  time,  won't  you?"  she  said; 


THE  AMATEUR  151 


and  Carey  resolved  to  do  so  before  he  left  for  home, 
but  he  dreaded  further  discussion  about  Anna,  and  kept 
postponing  the  call  from  day  to  day. 

He  decided  also  to  defer  taking  his  drawings  to  Sher 
man  until  after  his  return  to  New  York.  The  figures  of 
the  women  in  them  suggested  Anna  in  every  curve  and 
line,  and  reminded  him  accusingly  of  the  morbid  state  of 
his  mind  when  they  had  been  drawn.  It  seemed  a  desecra 
tion  to  exhibit  them. 

Five  days  after  the  funeral,  Joe's  expected  letter 
arrived.  It  contained  the  money  order  for  a  hundred 
dollars  and  a  long,  involved  explanation  of  the  delay 
which,  shorn  of  Joe's  cumbersome  and  wordy  phrases, 
appeared  to  have  been  due  to  the  fact  that  Joe  was  broke, 
as,  unfortunately,  his  friends  were  also,  and  he  had  had 
a  hard  time  borrowing  the  money,  as  every  one  needed  it 
for  Christmas.  It  was  great  to  think  of  Carey's  being 
home  for  the  holidays,  and  his  mother  was  counting  the 
hours  until  then.  The  death  of  Carey's  father  had  shaken 
her  badly. 

For  the  first  time  since  the  terrible  night  of  Anna's 
death,  Carey  felt  a  lifting  of  the  black  depression  that 
had  been  with  him  constantly.  It  had  not  occurred  to 
him  before  that  he  was  to  be  home  at  Christmas  time. 
There  was  always  a  festival  at  the  Pen  and  Brush  Club, 
and  he  and  his  mother  and  Joe  would  have  some  pleasant 
times  together. 

He  was  singing  the  chorus  of  a  popular  song  as  he 
bent  over  the  packing  of  his  suitcase,  when  Mr.  Blanch- 
ard  walked  into  the  room.  Anna's  father  had  been  shav 
ing,  and  some  of  the  soap  lather  still  adhered  to  one  side 
of  his  face.  He  had  removed  his  coat,  and  his  collar 


152  THE  AMATEUR 


and  tie.  The  unbuttoned  vest  disclosed  the  soiled  bosom 
of  a  starched,  crumpled  shirt. 

Carey  was  instantly  aware  that  the  old  man  was  in  the 
grip  of  some  powerful  emotion.  His  face  was  grey- 
white;  the  sockets  beneath  the  tufts  of  grizzled  eyebrows 
were  like  those  of  a  skull ;  he  was  visibly  shaking,  while, 
with  absurd  little  claw-like  gestures,  he  plucked  at  the 
bone  stud  in  the  neck-band  of  his  shirt.  For  some  mo 
ments  he  regarded  Carey,  his  lips  moving  tremulously. 
When  he  began  to  speak,  his  voice  broke  spasmodically. 

"You — you  can  s-sing!  You  can  sing  now!"  He  re 
peated  the  words  several  times,  nodding  his  head  as  if 
to  confirm  them.  It  occurred  to  Carey  that  the  shock 
of  his  bereavement  had  touched  the  old  man's  mind.  He 
tried  to  smile  at  him  sympathetically.  But  Blanchard 
was  intent  upon  his  own  thoughts. 

"You  damned  scoundrel !    You  young  whelp !" 

Not  so  much  the  words  as  the  biting  hatred  with  which 
they  were  said,  suddenly  made  Carey  understand  what 
was  passing  in  the  old  man's  mind. 

He  had  felt  so  warm  an  affection  and  so  deep  a  sym 
pathy  for  Anna's  father  since  her  death  that,  to  be  sus 
pected  by  him  of  being  in  any  measure  responsible  for 
it,  was  unspeakably  unkind  and  unjust.  An  indignant 
and  angry  flush  rose  to  Carey's  face. 

"Before  God,  Mr.  Blanchard,  I  am  not  the  man  you 
are  looking  for!" 

"One  of  the  many,  then,"  snarled  the  old  man. 

"No — no — no!"  cried  Carey,  "that's  not  so!"  The 
coarseness  of  the  accusation  shocked  him. 

"You  lie.     Charley's  wife  caught  you!" 

Swift  and  vivid  there  rose  before  Carey's  eyes  the  scene 
of  his  last  interrupted  afternoon  with  Anna.  Once  more 
he  saw  the  face  of  Mrs.  Charley  Fillmore,  as  she  stood 


THE  AMATEUR  153 


where  Anna's  father  was  now  standing,  grow  white  and 
red,  and  then  sharpen  like  a  rat's,  the  eyes  closing  to  half 
slits,  the  nostrils  quivering. 

It  was  only  a  week  ago ;  it  seemed  months ! 


PART   TWO 


PART   TWO 

CHAPTER  I 


T  T  was  not  until  after  he  was  at  home  that  Carey 
•••  learned  his  father  had  died  in  the  Hotel  Breslin  in 
New  York  City.  He  and  Jerry  Hart  had  often  gone 
there  from  the  theatre  for  supper  in  the  cafe.  On  the 
night  that  Princeton  had  beaten  Yale  in  their  annual 
football  battle,  he  had  helped  some  Princeton  enthusi 
asts  celebrate  the  victory  into  the  early  morning  hours. 
His  father  had  had  a  suite  in  the  same  hotel,  and  must 
have  been  ill  at  the  very  time  Carey  was  boisterously 
singing  in  the  cafe  with  his  friends  of  the  night.  It  was 
little  more  than  a  curious  coincidence  to  him  for  a  while. 
The  first  regret  that  entered  his  heart  came  unexpectedly 
with  the  advent  of  a  letter  from  his  father's  attorneys. 

Under  his  father's  will  he  inherited  twenty-two  thou 
sand  dollars  in  five  per  cent  bonds  and  all  his  personal 
effects,  including  his  books  and  music. 

The  heritage  staggered  Carey  at  first.  It  brought  a 
feeling  of  half  pity,  half  affection,  for  the  broken  old 
man  lying  in  pain  and  weakness  upon  his  last  bed  of  sick 
ness,  while  his  son  rioted  below  under  the  same  roof. 
His  mother,  who  received  nothing  by  the  will,  felt  much 
aggrieved,  and  took  the  attitude  that  it  would  be  disloy- 

157 


158  THE  AMATEUR 


alty  to  her  if  Carey  accepted  the  legacy.  Even  from  be 
yond  the  grave,  she  feared  Virgil  Williams  might  wean 
her  boy  away  from  her.  While  Carey  could  not  sympa 
thise  with  her  view,  he  appreciated  only  too  well  that,  in 
taking  the  money,  he  would  distress  her.  He  decided, 
.therefore,  to  refuse  it. 

Twenty-two  thousand  dollars  meant  nothing  to  him. 
He  had  never  expected  the  money  and,  between  the  effect 
of  the  mental  shock  of  Anna's  death  and  the  grateful, 
soothing  quiet  of  being  at  home  again,  it  mattered  little 
to  him  who  had  it.  He  failed  utterly  to  grasp  the  propor 
tions  of  the  inheritance.  He  wanted  to  please  his  mother. 
Carey  was  not  analytical  of  his  own  sense  of  morality. 
He  only  felt  vaguely  that,  in  his  old  feeling  for  Anna, 
he  had  been  wrong,  almost  as  wrong  as  Jerry  Hart.  He 
felt  that  he  had  been  tainted  by  the  atmosphere  in  which 
Anna  and  Jerry  moved.  Now  he  was  back  in  the  old, 
clean  air  at  home  and,  by  refusing  his  legacy,  he  could 
please  his  mother,  and,  at  the  same  time,  impress  Joe  with 
his  strength  of  character.  Best  of  all,  he  could  prove  to 
himself  that  he  was  not  weak.  The  satisfaction  his 
mother  plainly  showed,  and  his  own  sense  of  virtuous 
self-sacrifice,  were  ample  compensation. 

He  spent  Christmas  quietly  and  happily  at  home  and 
succeeded  in  a  measure  in  dispelling  the  gruesome  mem 
ory  of  the  unhappy  events  that  had  preceded  his  departure 
from  New  York.  He  had  told  Joe  about  the  whole  affair, 
but  his  mother  attributed  the  change  in  him  to  the  effect 
of  his  father's  death.  This  nettled  her.  She  was  at 
pains  to  refer  to  her  late  husband,  when  obliged  to  do 
so,  as  "your  unnatural  father"  or  "that  harsh  and  cruel 
man,  your  father."  Carey  tried  to  be  patient  and  respect 
ful  ;  but  at  times  it  required  all  his  self-control.  He  genu 
inely  loved  her  and  keenly  regretted  that  she  found  so 


THE  AMATEUR  159 


much  annoyance  and  irritation  in  the  conduct  of  her 
business  affairs.  The  property  his  father  had  deeded 
to  her  at  the  time  of  the  separation  still  brought  her  in 
a  comfortable  living,  but  Carey  was  heartily  glad  he 
was  no  longer  dependent  upon  her. 

As  the  train  whirled  him  back  to  New  York,  he  had 
time  to  consider  this  and  many  other  things.  His  first 
half  year  in  the  great  metropolis  had  taught  him  certain 
hard  lessons,  and  he  had  learnt  something  about  life 
from  them.  He  felt  immeasurably  older  and  better 
equipped  to  carve  out  his  career.  New  York  had  become 
infinitely  dear  to  him.  Eagerly  he  looked  forward  to 
walking  its  streets  again.  He  felt  a  certain  proprietory 
interest  in  it ;  it  was  his  New  York, — a  city  to  which  he 
at  last  belonged,  of  which  he  was  now  a  part,  and  which 
he  was  gradually  coming  to  understand. 

The  Hotel  Imperial  he  selected  for  his  temporary  quar 
ters  until  he  could  find  a  proper  boarding  house.  There 
was  to  be  no  return  to  Mamma  Muggins'.  Apart  from 
the  unpleasant  association  the  house  would  always  have, 
there  was  the  bitterness  of  Blanchard,  which  others  might 
have  come  to  share. 

He  found  what  appeared  to  be  a  suitable  boarding  place 
on  West  Twenty-second  Street  just  off  of  Fifth  Avenue. 
There  were  three  houses  under  the  management  of  a 
Mrs.  Lulu  Brown  who,  he  came  soon  to  learn,  was  called 
"Babe"  by  every  one  she  knew.  She  was  a  pretty  woman, 
blond  and  buxom,  who  gave  the  boarders  to  understand 
from  the  outset  that  there  was  "no  nonsense  about  her." 
She  employed  a  housekeeper  and  ran  her  establishment 
on  strictly  business  lines.  Her  boarders — their  number 
varied  from  sixty  to  seventy-five — consisted  chiefly  of 
clerks,  stenographers,  professional  suit-and-cloak  models, 


i6o  THE  AMATEUR 


book-keepers,  insurance  agents,  young  brokers,  an  occa 
sional  actress,  and  one  or  two  trained  nurses.  Of  the 
entire  number,  there  were  only  two  married  couples. 
Mrs.  Brown  ruled  her  boarders  like  a  school  mistress. 
No  one  was  allowed  to  fall  more  than  a  week  behind  in 
his  board  money  and,  at  the  first  word  of  gossip  regarding 
any  of  those  she  housed,  or  the  slightest  suspicion  that 
they  were  indulging  in  what  she  was  pleased  to  describe 
as  "philandering/'  she  made  it  a  rule  to  immediately  re 
quest  both  offenders  to  leave  her  roof. 

"No  credit  and  no  philandering  in  my  house,"  she 
informed  Carey  with  a  brusque  little  nod  of  her  head. 
"And  you  get  real  cream  and  eggs  that  ain't  candled. 
We're  both  blonds,  so  we  ought  to  get  along." 

Carey  was  fortunate  in  securing  a  fairly  good  room  on 
the  top  floor.  It  was  a  hall  bedroom,  and  he  agreed  to 
pay  twelve  dollars  a  week  for  it.  This  was  more  than 
he  could  afford,  even  if  he  got  back  his  job  of  making 
monograms.  But  he  was  determined  to  work  as  he  never 
had  before,  and  rather  enjoyed  the  stimulus  that  binding 
himself  to  twelve  dollars  a  week  gave  him. 

He  sent  over  to  Mamma  Muggins  for  his  trunk  and 
drawing  table  and,  when  the  expressman  returned,  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  he  restrained  himself  until  the  men 
had  left  the  room  before  opening  the  portfolios  that  con 
tained  his  drawings,  to  examine  again  the  two  sets  of 
pictures  he  had  done  for  Sherman.  He  was  rather 
pleased  with  them  on  the  whole.  They  were  not  as  good 
as  he  had  hoped,  but  they  were  far  better  than  his  pre 
vious  work. 

On  the  following  day,  he  took  them  over  to  Sherman's 
office.  Two  of  the  pictures  were  still  incomplete,  but  he 
was  too  impatient  to  finish  them. 


THE  AMATEUR  161 


Sherman  was  obviously  pleased.  He  congratulated 
Carey  on  taking  the  advice  he  had  given  him. 

"That  shows  hard,  conscientious  work,  my  boy,"  he 
said,  patting  Carey  on  the  shoulder;  "that's  good  stuff. 
They're  better  pictures,  I'll  admit,  than  the  ones  we  ran. 
Although  I  must  say,"  he  continued  with  a  twinkling 
glance  at  Carey,  "that  you  picked  out  about  the  worst 
illustrations  that  ever  appeared  in  the  Consolidated 
Weekly  to  try  to  beat.  However,  you've  satisfied  me, 
and  I  promise  you  a  yarn.  I  haven't  got  one  just  now, 
but  the  next  one  that  comes  in  that  I  think  you  can  do 
I'll  send  along." 

Happy,  with  springing  feet,  his  heart  and  mind  atune 
to  the  tingling,  crisp  afternoon  air,  Carey  fairly  ran 
down  the  street.  He  felt  success  within  his  grasp,  pre 
ferment  now  but  a  matter  of  months. 

The  fact  that  Ackerman,  of  Marks  and  Heineman,  re 
fused  to  see  him  and  sent  out  word  that  he  gave  no  work 
to  men  he  found  to  be  unreliable,  failed  to  quench  his  en 
thusiasm.  It  reminded  him,  however,  that  he  had  left 
New  York  without  sending  word  to  Ackerman  of  his 
intention,  and  now,  he  supposed,  the  Jew  was  sore.  He 
told  himself  he  would  soon  be  independent  of  such 
"squirt"  advertising  agencies  as  Marks  and  Heineman, 
and,  anyhow,  it  was  too  much  for  any  one  to  expect  him 
to  have  known  what  he  was  about  during  that  last  week 
in  New  York. 

The  next  day,  he  started  to  make  the  round  of  the 
magazines  again,  showing  the  illustrations  he  had  drawn 
at  Sherman's  suggestion.  He  did  not  think  it  amiss  to 
say  to  the  various  Art  Editors  he  was  permitted  to  see : 

"These  are  a  couple  of  sets  of  pictures  I've  just  fin 
ished  for  Mr.  Sherman  of  the  Consolidated  Press  Syn 
dicate."  It  implied  that  he  was  exhibiting  them  before 


162  THE  AMATEUR 


they  were  delivered  to  the  Consolidated  Press,  that  they 
were  the  result  of  a  genuine  assignment. 

The  information  had  its  effect.  Art  Editors  gave  him 
more  attention  and  were  more  courteous  to  him,  but  none 
committed  himself  to  anything  further  than  asking  him 
to  leave  his  name  and  address  again.  It  was  the  same 
with  the  advertising  agencies.  Two  of  the  men  he  saw 
remembered  him  and  asked  him  if  he  was  not  the  ar 
tist  who  had  at  one  time  showed  some  reproductions  of 
vignettes  for  railway  folders.  They  all  told  him  to  come 
again  and,  although  he  failed  to  get  any  kind  of  a  definite 
assignment,  he  felt  that  he  had  at  least  made  progress 
toward  gaining  one.  At  length  he  sold  one  of  the  illus 
trations  he  had  done  for  Sherman  to  a  religious  paper 
published  in  the  Bible  House.  The  picture  happily  il 
lustrated  a  poem  the  editor  of  the  children's  department 
had  on  hand.  He  received  five  dollars  for  it.  By  the  end 
of  the  second  week,  the  money  his  mother  had  given  him 
at  Christmas  was  spent.  .  "Babe"  would  allow  him,  he 
knew,  a  week's  grace,  but,  at  the  end  of  that  time,  if  his 
twelve  dollars  was  not  forthcoming,  it  was  inevitable 
that  he  should  find  himself,  bag  and  baggage,  out  on  the 
sidewalk.  It  was  after  he  had  mustered  up  the  necessary 
courage  to  telephone  Sherman  and  ask  if  the  yarn  he  had 
been  promised  had  as  yet  put  in  an  appearance  and  had 
been  told  that  so  far  there  was  "nothing  doing,"  that  the 
thought  of  the  legacy  his  father  had  left  him  came  to  him. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  he  was  still 
in  bed.  The  dining  room  in  the  basement  closed  at  that 
hour,  but  Carey  had  decided  to  breakfast  at  a  Childs  res 
taurant  on  Twenty-third  Street.  For  half-an-hour  he 
had  lain  awake,  his  hands  locked  beneath  his  head,  staring 
upwards  at  the  discoloured  ceiling  above  him,  wondering 
where  he  was  to  raise  the  twelve  dollars  he  already  owed 


THE  AMATEUR  163 


and  the  twelve  that  he  would  owe  for  the  week  follow 
ing,  and  the  one  following  that,  when  it  came  upon  him 
with  a  suddenness  that  brought  him  to  the  middle  of  the 
floor  with  a  bound,  that  he  was  a  rich  man  if  he  but 
wished  to  be  one!  Carey  caught  the  reflection  of  his 
ruddy  face  and  his  mop  of  yellow  hair  in  the  mirror.  He 
regarded  his  image  dazedly  for  some  moments,  rubbing 
the  bright  bristle  on  his  chin  that  had  appeared  since  last 
he  had  shaved. 

For  the  first  time,  he  realised  the  proportions  of  what 
he  had  renounced  so  lightly.  It  had  not  seemed  a  real 
thing  before.  He  had  decided  to  refuse  it  as  if  it  had 
been  a  paltry  twenty- two  dollars  instead  of  twenty-two 
thousand!  Twenty-two  thousand!  Why,  it  was  a  for 
tune!  He  recalled  with  a  wave  of  relief  that  he  had 
not  even  taken  the  trouble  to  reply  to  the  attorneys'  let 
ter!  The  matter  had  seemed  of  too  little  importance. 
He  could  pay  Joe  Downer  back  the  three  hundred  he 
owed  him  immediately,  and  it  would  not  be  necessary 
ever  to  tell  his  mother  that  he  had  accepted  the  money. 
She  could  be  led  to  think  that  he  had  made  it  by  his  Art, 
and  occasionally  he  could  slip  a  hundred-dollar  check  into 
a  letter  to  her  as  a  present! 

His  mind  leaped  from  one  possibility  to  another. 
There  was  nothing  he  couldn't  do !  Money  made  every 
thing  possible.  He  could  pay  Babe  her  twelve,  and  bid 
her  and  her  crowd  of  clerks  and  salesgirls  good-bye  for 
ever,  and  he  could  have  a  studio  of  his  own,  with  low 
book  shelves  and  a  window  seat  with  corduroy  cushions, 
an  open  fireplace  and  a  Morris  chair,  and  a  student's 
lamp !  He  was  rich !  He  could  tell  them  all  "to  go  chase 
themselves!"  He  was  rich!  He  had  twenty-two  thou 
sand  dollars! 

He  dressed  hastily,  his  heart  singing.     But,  with  all 


164  THE  AMATEUR 

his  elation,  there  lurked  within  him  a  fear  that  ever  grew 
more  persistent,  that  somehow  he  had  forfeited  the 
money,  that  he  had  allowed  it  to  slip  through  his  ringers. 
When  he  had  shaved  and  put  on  his  best  suit,  a  white 
cheviot  shirt  and  a  black  silk  cravat,  he  examined  himself 
critically  in  his  mirror.  His  appearance  producing  in 
a  measure  the  effect  he  desired,  he  ran  down  stairs  and 
at  Childs  restaurant  swallowed  his  coffee  and  butter- 
cakes  as  fast  as  the  excessive  heat  of  both  permitted. 
As  he  boarded  an  up-town  Broadway  car,  he  noted  that 
all  his  cash  in  hand  amounted  to  one  dollar  and  ten  cents. 

At  the  Breslin,  he  interviewed  the  assistant  manager 
and  learned  that  the  firm's  name  of  his  father's  attor 
neys  was  Harris,  Mooney  and  Merillon,  and  their  address 
was  35  Nassau  Street.  He  arrived  at  their  office  a  little 
after  eleven. 

The  result  of  his  visit  was  not  altogether  satisfactory. 
Mr.  Merillon  was  very  cordial,  but  he  smiled  at  Carey's 
assumption  that  the  legacy  was  to  be  handed  over  at  once. 

"Due  notice  of  your  father's  death,  Mr.  Williams, 
must  be  given  the  publicity  required  by  law,  to  allow 
any  unknown  creditors  your  father  may  have  to  file  their 
claims  against  his  estate.  We  were  a  little  at  a  loss  to 
understand  why  we  failed  to  receive  a  reply  to  the  com 
munication  we  addressed  you  in  your  home  town,  and 
only  yesterday  we  received  a  reply  from  our  represen 
tative  there,  who  advised  us  that  he  had  called  upon  your 
mother,  who  informed  him  that  you  had  decided  to  re 
fuse  it.  As  there  were  no  restrictions  made  by  your 
father  regarding  ..." 

"I've  changed  my  mind,"  Carey  said,  feeling  the  colour 
rising  in  his  face. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  Mr.  Merillon  continued,  "but  you 
must  understand  that  at  least  ten  months  or  a  year  must 


THE  AMATEUR  165 


elapse  before  your  father's  estate  can  be  apportioned  as 
he  desired.  We,  as  his  executors,  could  not  possibly  dis 
burse  any  part  of  his  property  prior  to  that.  However, 
as  your  father  was  not  engaged  in  active  business,  and  we 
have  been  conversant  with  his  affairs  for  some  years,  it 
may  be  that  my  partners  will  decide  to  help  you  out  of 
your  present  difficulties.  Your  father's  personal  effects 
may  be  turned  over  to  you  at  once.  His  widow,  after 
consultation  with  us,  arranged  to  have  these  crated.  I 
am  not  certain  whether  they  have  been  removed  as  yet 
to  the  storage  warehouse  where  it  was  decided  to  send 
them  until  we  heard  from  you  regarding  their  disposition. 
If  you  will  call  on  Saturday,  I  will  be  able  to  tell  you 
about  them  and  advise  you  of  our  decision  as  to  ad 
vancing  you  sufficient  funds  to  tide  you  over  for  the 
present." 

The  intervening  days  were  full  of  excitement  for 
Carey.  On  Saturday,  "Babe"  Brown  would  expect  his 
board.  His  fate, — of  such  little  importance  to  any  one  in 
that  vast,  seething  city — rested  with  his  father's  attor 
neys.  He  did  not  worry  about  it,  however.  He  was  too 
excited  to  do  any  work,  so  he  spent  his  time  looking  at 
vacant  studios.  He  found  this  a  fascinating  amusement. 
Not  knowing  what  his  income  was  to  be,  he  had  no 
idea  of  what  he  could  afford.  The  rents  appalled  him, 
particularly  as  he  soon  realised  that  he  would  be  put  to 
the  expense  of  furnishing.  He  alternated  his  inspection 
of  studios  with  visits  to  the  antique  furniture  shops 
on  Fourth  Avenue  and  the  second-hand  furniture  dealers 
on  Third.  He  planned  a  hundred  different  schemes  of 
furnishing  a  hundred  different  studios. 

He  met  McNeil  and  French  in  one  of  these  Third  Ave 
nue  stores,  haggling  with  the  dealer  over  the  price  of  a 
large  walnut  dresser.  Not  being  certain  of  their  recep- 


166  THE  AMATEUR 

tion  of  him,  Carey  sauntered  out  into  the  street,  hoping 
to  give  the  impression  that  he  had  not  observed  them; 
but  French  came  running  after  him.  They  were  both 
glad  to  see  him ;  when  had  he  returned  ?  Where  was  he 
living?  They  were  going  housekeeping  in  a  flat — just 
the  two  of  them.  The  Fillmore  house  was  going  down 
hill.  Vernaught  and  Washburn  had  moved  away  and 
Mamma  Muggins  and  Miss  Watt  in  their  heavy  black  put 
an  "awful  crusher  on  any  sort  of  a  joke."  It  was  dis 
mal.  They  had  had  to  get  in  an  upstairs  girl  to  do  Anna's 
work  and  were  obliged  to  help  themselves !  Anna,  whom 
they  had  treated  like  a  drudge  while  she  was  alive,  they 
had  begun  to  appreciate  now  they  had  to  pay  some 
one  to  come  in  to  do  her  work!  There  had  been  no 
word  from  Jerry  Hart.  McNeil  wasn't  sure  he  had 
heard  a  thing  about  the  whole  affair. 

The  meeting  cheered  Carey.  They  had  spoken  of  an 
evening  at  Hammerstein's  with  them,  and  Carey  would 
have  enjoyed  it ;  but  his  purse  now  contained  only  twenty 
cents,  and  he  was  obliged  to  tell  them  that,  for  a  while, 
he  was  broke.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  give  them  a 
"bang-up"  party  when  he  came  into  his  money. 

On  Saturday  he  saw  Mr.  Merillon.  The  semi-annual 
interest  from  the  twenty-two  bonds  fell  due  on  January 
ist,  and  the  coupons  were  still  to  be  cashed.  If  this  sum 
would  help  Carey  for  the  time  being,  the  executors,  so 
Mr.  Merillon  explained,  would  be  very  glad  to  deposit  the 
amount  to  his  credit  at  whatever  bank  he  chose. 

"And  that  would  amount  to — ?"  asked  Carey. 

"Five  hundred  and  fifty  dollars." 

He  had  hoped  it  was  going  to  be  considerably  more 
than  that.  However,  it  was  a  God-send  just  at  the  pres 
ent.  He  left  with  the  cheque  in  his  pocket. 

Among  the  various  vacant  studios  he  had  visited,  he 


THE  AMATEUR  167 


had  found  one  in  a  large  rambling  building  on  Seventh 
Avenue,  devoted  entirely  to  artists'  quarters.  It  was 
called  The  Rembrandt  Studios.  It  contained  nearly  a 
hundred  small  apartments  that  rented  at  thirty-five  to 
forty-five  dollars  a  month;  each  was  equipped  with  a 
bath  and  kitchenette.  They  were  designed  for  light 
housekeeping,  and  Carey  saw  himself  cooking  his  own 
breakfasts  and  lunches  over  the  diminutive  gas  stove,  and 
eating  his  dinners  at  some  cheap  restaurant.  The  chief 
attraction  about  the  place  was  the  size  of  the  studio  it 
self,  which  was  about  twenty  by  thirty  feet.  There  was 
a  large  skylight,  like  an  immense  dormer  window,  and,  al 
though  there  was  no  fireplace,  there  were  two  steam  ra 
diators,  and  plenty  of  hot  water. 

The  deciding  factor  in  persuading  Carey  to  select  these 
quarters  was  that  his  neighbours  would  be  artists  like  him 
self.  Some  of  the  names  on  the  letter  boxes  downstairs 
he  recognised  as  those  of  successful  illustrators,  whose 
work  was  constantly  appearing  in  the  weeklies  and  some 
of  the  monthlies.  Particularly  was  he  familiar  with  the 
illustrations  of  Fleming  Springer,  and  the  Neidlingers, 
both  of  whom  drew,  the  wash  drawings  of  Arthur  Wil 
liam  Brooks,  and  the  comic  pen-and-inks  of  Mark 
Harrison.  Besides  artists,  a  number  of  musicians  found 
quarters  in  the  Rembrandt  Studios.  Carey  had  heard 
them  at  their  vocalising  and  their  scales  on  his  first  visit. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  place  appealed  to  him.  He  would 
be  in  his  own  element,  among  those  with  whom  he  be 
longed.  He  told  himself  he  was  slowly  mounting  the 
rungs  toward  success,  and  the  Rembrandt  Studios  con 
stituted  a  phase  in  his  progress  to  an  apartment  of  his 
own,  and  thence  to  an  establishment  like  Gregory  Shil 
ling's.  It  would  all  come,  perhaps  slowly,  but,  neverthe 
less,  it  would  come ! 


i68  THE  AMATEUR 


Carey  moved  on  the  following  Saturday.  He  found 
great  pleasure  in  buying  sheets  and  blankets  and  towels 
and  pots  and  saucepans,  and  in  laying  in  a  small  supply 
of  coffee  and  condensed  milk,  canned  beans  and  soups. 
He  bought  a  couch  at  Macy's,  and  a  small  table,  a  chest 
of  drawers  and  a  couple  of  chairs  at  the  second-hand 
furniture  dealer's  on  Third  Avenue.  For  some  time  he 
hesitated  over  an  eighteen-dollar  rag  rug  he  saw  at  Wana- 
maker's,  but  finally  succumbed  to  its  warm  tones  and 
bought  it.  Curtains  presented  a  difficult  problem.  Be 
side  the  skylight,  the  studio  possessed  two  windows  that 
faced  upon  a  narrow  air-well.  With  the  shades  drawn, 
the  room  was  close  and  stuffy;  raised,  they  exposed  the 
ugly  brick  wall  of  the  well.  At  Wanamaker's  he  found 
a  soft,  golden  brown  texture  that  the  clerk  had  described 
as  "aurora  cloth."  A  week  after  he  moved  in,  he  sent 
an  order  to  the  department  store  to  have  the  windows 
measured  and  the  curtains  made. 

Gradually  he  became  settled  in  his  new  quarters,  but, 
after  the  interest  of  moving  in  and  furnishing  the  studio 
had  passed,  a  feeling  of  loneliness  and  isolation  de 
scended  upon  him.  He  longed  for  companionship.  He 
missed  Joe  Downer  and  Jerry  Hart;  he  would  have  felt 
grateful  for  an  evening  with  French  and  McNeil.  They, 
however,  had  moved  away  from  the  Fillmore's  and  had 
begun  their  experience  of  keeping  house.  He  had  lost 
their  new  address.  He  began  to  realise  how  few  per 
sons  in  New  York  he  knew,  and  of  these  not  one  could 
he  count  on  as  a  real  friend. 

Behind  the  closed  doors  of  the  studios  in  The  Rem 
brandt  came  the  noise  of  young  laughter  and  high  spirits; 
odours  of  appetizing  dishes,  entrancing  smells  of  cooking 
food,  filtered  through  the  halls  at  meal  time ;  a  girl  in  a 
painter's  smock  would  fling  open  a  door  as  he,  perhaps, 


THE  AMATEUR  169 


was  passing  by  and,  springing  lightly  across  the  inter 
vening  hall,  bang  loudly  and  peremptorily  upon  that  of 
a  neighbour's,  to  borrow  a  tube  of  paint,  or  an  onion,  or 
a  cup  of  kerosene  for  the  lamp.  But  no  one  invited  him 
to  partake  of  the  fragrant  suppers,  or  spoke  to  him 
as  he  wandered  in  and  out  of  the  building.  He  felt 
"out  of  it,"  lonely  and  despondent. 

In  such  a  mood  of  depression  it  occurred  to  him  that 
his  father's  personal  effects,  his  books  and  music,  had,  in 
addition  to  the  bonds,  been  bequeathed  to  him,  and  that, 
though  he  might  not  be  particularly  anxious  to  become 
their  owner,  it  was  unquestionably  his  duty  to  claim  them. 
He  therefore  telephoned  Merillon,  one  morning  toward 
the  end  of  February.  Merillon  advised  him  to  apply  to 
the  manager  of  the  Hotel  Breslin  who,  he  understood,  had 
had  the  clothing,  effects,  books  and  music  belonging  to 
Mr.  Virgil  Williams  put  in  storage  awaiting  directions  re 
garding  them  from  the  attorneys  of  the  deceased  man. 
Carey  was  sent  by  the  hotel  manager  to  the  undertakers 
who  furnished  him  with  an  order  on  the  warehouse  com 
pany. 

Several  days  passed  before  the  crates  containing  his 
father's  few  personal  belongings  finally  arrived  at  The 
Rembrandt  Studios.  There  were  seven  of  them  and,  af 
ter  he  had  tipped  the  expressmen  who  had  carried 
them  up  from  the  street  to  his  own  studio,  he  stared 
rather  blankly  at  the  great  square  boxes,  almost  as  tall 
as  himself,  that  sat  squat  and  uncompromising  in  the 
middle  of  his  little  home. 

Carey  had  no  idea  what  constituted  the  personal  ef 
fects  of  a  man  such  as  his  father  had  been,  until  he  came 
to  investigate  the  contents  of  these  boxes.  As  he  un 
folded  the  coats  and  vests  and  trousers,  and  piled  the 
stiff-bosomed  shirts  and  underclothes,  there  came  to  him 


170  THE  AMATEUR 

a  depressing  sense  of  having  failed  the  man  who  had 
left  him  these  things.  The  woman  whom  he  had  made 
his  second  wife,  the  dying  man  foresaw,  would  take  her 
share  of  his  money  and  leave  his  body  to  the  under 
takers,  concerning  herself  only  with  her  own  welfare. 
Virgil  Williams  undoubtedly  hoped  that,  in  return  for 
the  unexpectedly  generous  amount  he  had  left  his  son, 
the  boy  would  attend  to  the  disposition  of  his  clothing 
and  intimate  belongings,  sensing  his  father's  aversion  to 
having  these  handled  by  servants  and  the  hirelings  of  un 
dertakers.  Carey  understood  all  this  now;  it  was  as 
palpable  to  him  as  though  his  father  had  written  him  a 
last  letter  of  his  wishes. 

As  Carey  unpacked  the  clothing,  there  emanated  from 
it  a  faint  aroma  that  brought  back  the  man  who  had  worn 
it  as  vividly  as  if  the  days  when  Carey  was  still  a  school 
boy  and  his  father  painfully  and  slowly  climbed  the 
stairs,  blind  with  a  sick  headache,  were  but  a  week  or 
so  ago.  The  sweat  stains  under  the  armpits  on  the  lining 
of  a  vest  supplied  the  last  intimate  touch  that  enabled 
Carey  to  recall  his  vigorous  character  and  personality. 
It  stirred  within  him  a  welcome  affection  for  the  man 
whose  son  he  was.  His  father  might  have  done  wrong, 
might  have  treated  his  mother  shabbily,  ignored  and  neg 
lected  himself  for  years,  and  yet,  upon  his  deathbed,  he 
had  thought  of  Carey  and  left  all  these  things  to  him, 
not  to  treasure  and  preserve — he  understood  his  father's 
purpose  well  enough  for  that — but  to  dispose  of  as 
seemed  advisable, — as  his  own  son  chose.  There  was 
something  extremely  appealing  to  Carey  about  this  simple 
trust.  His  father  was  dead  two  months,  and  his  son  did 
not  even  know  where  he  had  been  buried ! 

Three  of  the  cases  contained  books.  They  had  been 
well  selected,  and  some  of  them  very  beautifully  bound. 


THE  AMATEUR  171 


The  greater  portion  dealt  with  art  or  music,  while  there 
were  a  number  of  histories  and  almost  a  complete  col 
lection  of  the  works  of  the  English  poets.  There  were 
some  thirty  volumes  of  Baedeker.  A  fourth  case  was 
filled  with  music.  In  this  were  scores  of  nearly  all  the 
operas  and  a  great  quantity  of  European  editions  of  the 
compositions  of  Bach,  Beethoven,  dementi,  Scarlatti, 
Brahms,  Schumann  and  Chopin,  each  portfolio  carefully 
tied  with  a  linen  ribbon  to  keep  the  loose  pages  together. 
Only  an  ardent  music  lover  would  have  taken  such  pains. 
For  sixteen  dollars,  Carey  had  some  low  book  shelves 
built  along  one  side  of  the  studio,  and  he  spent  two  days 
painting  and  varnishing  them.  The  books  and  music 
gave  the  studio  an  atmosphere  of  completeness  and  cosi 
ness.  He  was  delighted  with  the  effect.  He  determined 
to  have  some  loose  curtains  of  monk's  cloth  made  for 
the  book  cases  as  soon  as  he  came  into  his  money.  The 
joy  he  derived  from  the  companionable  backs  of  the 
rows  of  books  grew  from  day  to  day.  He  tried  to  read 
some  of  the  ones  dealing  with  art,  but  they  failed  to  in 
terest  him.  They  dealt  with  Greek  and  Roman  achieve 
ments,  heavy  volumes  containing  intaglio  reproductions 
of  the  Parthenon,  the  Arch  of  Titus,  the  Forum  at  Pom 
peii,  the  pictures  protected  by  fine  tissue  paper,  the  legends 
printed  thereon  in  red  italics.  Other  books  dealt  with 
the  work  of  the  Pre-Raphaelites,  and  there  were  portfo 
lios  containing  large  engravings  of  the  details  from  the 
mural  paintings  in  the  Vatican, — the  Sistine  Chapel  and 
the  room  of  the  Borgias.  There  were  also  collections  of 
reproductions  of  the  masterpieces  in  The  Louvre,  the 
great  paintings  in  the  Luxemburg  Galleries,  notable  pic 
tures  of  the  French  Salon,  Women  in  French  Art, — the 
latter  in  magazine  form  to  which  Virgil  Williams  had 
evidently  subscribed  for  years.  Every  other  picture  in 


172  THE  AMATEUR 

these  books  seemed  to  Carey  to  be  by  Bouguereau,  whose 
fat,  round-eyed,  sheep-faced  women  irritated  him  curi 
ously. 

He  wondered  a  little  that  these  reproductions  of  great 
masterpieces  left  him  so  cold.  It  was  as  if  Art  was  not 
his  profession  and  that  he  pursued  another  calling.  Had 
he  stumbled  across  one  picture  by  Walter  Madison  Parke 
he  would  have  been  thrilled  to  the  core  of  his  being. 
They  were  illustrators:  Parke,  the  master;  Carey  Wil 
liams,  the  humble  student.  It  occurred  to  him  for  the 
first  time  that  the  work  of  the  illustrator  is  an  art  by  it 
self.  He  thought  about  this  a  great  deal  and  the  more 
he  considered  it,  the  more  he  was  convinced  it  was  so. 

His  father's  clothing  he  separated  into  two  bundles. 
One  of  these  he  sent  to  the  Salvation  Army,  the  other 
he  took  to  a  neighbouring  tailor  who  assured  him  it  would 
be  a  simple  matter  to  alter  them  to  fit  himself  :  three  busi 
ness  suits,  a  frock  coat,  and  some  white  vests.  Carey 
felt  sure  that  his  father  would  have  been  glad  to  have 
him  wear  them. 

From  the  undertaker,  he  learned  that  his  father  was 
buried  in  Mount  Kisco  Cemetery,  and  on  Sunday  he 
made  his  pilgrimage  to  the  grave.  There  had.  been  a 
heavy  snow  and  it  was  biting  cold.  Drifts  had  piled 
themselves  against  the  frozen  monuments,  obliterating 
the  smaller  ones,  covering  the  ground  in  a  series  of  undu 
lating  dunes  with  a  smothering  whiteness.  A  high, 
rioting  wind  swept  out  of  the  north,  and  the  fine  dry  par 
ticles  of  snow  swirled  about  among  the  half -covered 
marbles  and  mausoleums,  leaping  across  the  wide,  circling 
roads,  spinning  up  toward  the  low,  dull-grey  clouds,  like 
flying,  tossing  manes  of  galloping  white  horses.  Carey 
bent  his  head  against  it  and  stumbled  on  through  the  en- 


THE  AMATEUR  173 


cumbering  drifts,  pulling  one  foot  after  another  out  of 
the  ankle-deep  piles  that  had  gathered  in  the  roadway. 

There  had  been  no  satisfaction  in  standing  before  a 
few  square  yards  of  whiteness,  and  in  realising  that  be 
neath  it  and  some  additional  feet  of  hard,  frozen  earth, 
his  father's  body  lay,  an  organism  that  had  suffered  so 
much  pain,  that  had  known  bitterness  and  disappoint 
ment,  disillusion  and  unrealised  hopes.  What  was  it  all 
for?  A  man  lived,  begot  and  died.  No  one  mourned 
him.  This  one's  first  wife  hated  him;  his  second,  having 
secured  the  bulk  of  his  money,  despised  him!  His  son? 

Carey  felt  acutely  sorry  for  him.  He  guessed  the 
tragedy  of  his  father's  life,  the  dreadful  emptiness  of  it. 
It  was  like  the  wind-swept,  snow-covered  cemetery :  only 
dead  things  remained;  even  the  memories  of  joys  and 
emotions  that  once  had  thrilled  and  swayed  the  living 
body  had  been  slowly  wiped  away,  obliterated  as  the 
snow  effaced  the  outlines  of  the  monuments  that  had  been 
so  carefully  chiselled  and  fashioned,  and  had  been  so 
lovingly  placed  there. 

The  boy  turned  away,  the  wind  howling  at  his  back, 
pushing  him  eagerly  along,  hurrying  him  down  the  wind 
ing  road,  as  though  it  resented  his  living  presence  within 
the  city  of  the  dead. 

When  the  bonds  were  turned  over  to  him,  Carey  re 
solved  that  one  of  them  should  go  to  erect  a  simple  stone 
beside  his  father's  grave.  No  one  should  know  about  it 
but  himself;  he  would  not  even  tell  Joe. 


CHAPTER    II 


A  FINAL  extravagance  in  the  shape  of  a  beautifully- 
shaped  bronze  lamp  with  a  maroon  and  green  shade 
brought  Carey  to  the  abrupt  realisation  that,  in  two 
months,  he  had  spent  all  but  about  a  hundred  dollars  of 
the  sum  his  father's  attorneys  had  allowed  him.  The 
lamp  he  had  found  in  a  curious  and  dirty  junk  shop  on 
Houston  Street.  The  dealer  had  wanted  forty  dollars 
for  it,  and  the  fact  that  Carey  had  beaten  him  down  to 
twenty-five  and,  further,  that  he  knew  that  the  lamp  was 
worth  at  least  twice  what  the  dealer  asked  originally, 
seemed  to  furnish  irrefutable  arguments  in  favour  of  his 
becoming  its  immediate  owner. 

But,  after  he  had  cleaned  it  and  filled  it  with  oil  and  ad 
justed  its  wicks  and  admired  the  soft,  gracious  radiance 
that  filtered  through  the  maroon  and  green  shade,  he  was 
obliged  to  consider  once  more  the  problem  of  existence. 

Since  he  had  returned  to  New  York,  he  had  not 
touched  his  work.  Week  after  week  had  slipped  away 
while  he  hoped  that  some  morning's  mail  would  bring 
him  a  commission  from  Sherman.  He  had  written  the 
Art  Editor  informing  him  of  his  new  address  and  ex 
pressing  the  hope  that  a  story  would  present  itself  shortly 
with  which  he  might  be  trusted ;  but  he  had  had  no  reply. 
The  necessity  of  following  this  up  or  of  peddling  his 
work  again  among  the  magazines  and  advertising  agen- 

174 


THE  AMATEUR  175 


cies  did  not  seem  as  imperative  as  it  had  done  in  view  of 
the  pile  of  fifty-  and  twenty-dollar  bills  that  had  lain  at 
the  bottom  of  his  handkerchief  drawer.  The  longer  he 
idled,  the  more  impossible  did  it  seem  for  him  to  buckle 
down  to  his  work  again.  All  the  fire  of  his  enthusiasm 
was  gone.  He  spent  much  of  his  time  at  the  theatres,  oc 
cupying  gallery  seats,  buying  his  ticket  two  and  three 
weeks  in  advance  to  be  sure  of  a  front  seat.  After  the 
final  curtain  fell  and  he  hurried  with  the  rest  of  the  audi 
ence  to  the  street,  it  was  always  a  dismal  moment  when 
the  others  rapidly  disappeared,  hastening  to  their  homes 
or  to  noisy,  merry  suppers,  leaving  him  sauntering  along 
the  sidewalk  with  perhaps  no  more  definite  aim  than  to 
go  back  to  his  cheerless  room  in  The  Rembrandt  Studios, 
open  a  bottle  of  beer  and  drink  it  by  himself. 

Among  his  extravagances  during  the  first  month  of 
his  tenancy  in  The  Rembrandt  Studios  had  been  a  water 
colour  box.  It  was  unusually  complete,  with  some  forty 
different  colours,  and  contained  various  fascinating  porce 
lain  saucers  that  seemed  to  invite  the  mixing  of  the  little* 
brick  pigments.  Carey  had  not  tried  his  hand  at  water 
colours  since  the  sketching  tour  during  which  he  had  made 
the  friendship  of  Joe  Downer.  He  had  always  wanted 
to  experiment  with  them,  however,  and  now,  dully  and 
listlessly,  he  turned  to  his  new  box,  hoping  that,  through 
what  amusement  the  working  in  this  unfamiliar  medium 
might  afford,  he  would  find  an  idea  or  an  inspiration  that 
would  help  him  get  back  to  serious  work. 

For  some  time  he  sat  before  his  drawing  table,  pencil 
in  hand,  gazing  stupidly  at  the  neatly  thumb-tacked  sheet 
of  Watman's  paper  upon  it,  vaguely  attempting  to  think 
of  a  suitable  subject  to  lay  in  which  he  could  work  up 
later  in  water  colours.  He  was  trying  to  recall  a  bit 
of  landscape  he  had  once  done  for  Professor  Eschen, 


176  THE  AMATEUR 


with  which  the  old  man  had  been  greatly  pleased,  when 
a  knock  came  at  the  door.  Since  his  arrival  at  The 
Rembrandt  Studios,  Carey  had  constantly  received  calls 
from  men,  women  and  children  seeking  model  hire.  The 
men  were  usually  white-haired,  with  ample  flowing 
beards ;  the  women,  either  elderly  or  flirtatious ;  the  chil 
dren,  red-cheeked,  in  Fauntleroy  suits,  accompanied  by 
their  mothers  who  resented  any  admiration  for  their  off 
springs  less  ardent  than  their  own.  But  the  girl  who  an 
swered  Carey's  shout  of  "Come  in"  was  a  different  type 
from  any  of  these.  He  saw  the  frightened  look  that 
swept  the  room,  including  everything  in  it  but  himself, 
and  the  shaking  hand  that  caught  the  ends  of  the  piece 
of  fur  she  wore  at  the  throat.  She  stood  on  the  thresh 
old,  half  leaning  against  the  door  jamb,  her  other  hand 
still  upon  the  knob.  Carey  stared  at  her,  fascinated  by 
the  picture  she  unconsciously  made.  Suddenly  the  girl's 
roving  eyes  rested  upon  him.  Swiftly,  with  simultaneous 
gesture  of  hand  and  foot,  she  stepped  back  into  the  hall, 
shutting  the  door  firmly  after  her.  Carey,  for  an  instant, 
continued  his  stare  at  the  blank  surface  of  the  door. 
Then  he  sprang  up,  leaped  across  the  room,  flung  it  open, 
in  time  to  see  her  slim  figure  hurrying  down  the  hall. 

"Wait  a  minute!"  he  called.  She  stopped,  half  turn 
ing  toward  him ;  shrinking  perceptibly  closer  to  the  wall 
as  he  came  up  to  her. 

"If  you  want  a  job  as  model,  I'm  looking  for  one." 
Not  till  then  was  he  aware  of  the  appealing  beauty  of  her 
face.  It  was  not  the  composed,  sedate  beauty  of  little 
Jane  Boardman.  This  girl  was  an  Irish  type,  a  thin  oval 
face  and  grey  eyes,  with  heavy,  dark-bronze  brows  and 
lashes.  Her  hair,  the  most  noticeable  characteristic  she 
possessed,  was  a  dull  red.  Carey,  as  he  stood  before  her, 
was  conscious  only  of  an  urgent  desire  to  convince  this 


THE  AMATEUR  177 


girl  that  he  did  not  belong  to  the  class  of  men  she  instinc 
tively  feared. 

Swiftly  she  flashed  him  a  look,  and  he  smiled  at  her 
boyishly  and  frankly. 

"You  don't  know  much  about  this  business,"  he  said 
ingratiatingly.  "You  need  not  be  afraid  of  me.  You're 
just  the  type  of  a  model  I  want/' 

Without  raising  her  eyes  again,  the  girl  walked  toward 
the  open  door  of  his  studio.  Carey  followed;  but,  as  he 
shut  the  door  behind  him,  some  of  her  embarrassment 
and  constraint  communicated  itself  to  him.  When  she 
had  removed  her  hat  and  slipped  out  of  the  long,  loose 
coat  she  wore,  Carey  found,  in  the  quaint,  awkward 
movements  of  her  hips  and  shoulders,  convincing  evi 
dence  of  the  unsophistication  and  naivete  he  had  noticed 
in  her  face.  Her  hair  was  remarkable.  It  was  lustre 
less,  possessing  a  frosted  quality,  like  the  mark  of  a  per 
son's  breath  upon  a  window  glass: — a  dull  brick  red. 
She  wore  it  in  two  heavy  braids,  wound  about  her  head 
like  a  double  halo.  Her  dress  was  blue  serge,  obviously 
of  the  department  store's  basement  type,  but  relieved  by 
white  linen  cuffs  and  turned-down  collar.  Her  gestures, 
as  she  raised  her  arms  for  a  moment  to  pat  the  heavy  red 
ropes  that  lay  coiled  upon  her  head,  were  charming  in 
their  curious  angularity  and  sexless  grace. 

It  was  evident  to  Carey  she  did  not  know  what  was 
expected  of  her.  He  was  unaware,  however,  of  the  ex 
tent  of  her  agitation  until,  raising  his  head  from  the  proc 
ess  of  putting  a  delicate  point  on  his  pencil,  he  observed 
again  the  violent  trembling  of  her  hand.  His  anxiety  to 
relieve  her  of  her  distress  made  him  almost  as  nervous 
as  she  was. 

"Darn  it!     She's  only  a  model  after  all!"  said  Carey 


178  THE  AMATEUR 


to  himself,  fussing  over  his  brushes.  And,  suddenly 
turning  to  face  her,  he  spoke  almost  roughly :  ~ 

"Look  here,  Miss — er — ,  Miss — er —  please  get  wise. 
I'm  not  going  to  embarrass  you.  I'm  not  that  kind.  You 
came  here  on  business  and,  at  the  end  of  your  work,  I'll 
pay  you  a  dollar  and  a  half  for  each  hour  you've  been 
posing.  Now,  all  I  want  of  you  is  to  do  a  study  of  your 
head.  If  I  don't  finish  it  to-day,  I'll  ask  you  to  come  to 
morrow.  If  you  are  going  to  act  like  a  frightened  rab 
bit,  you  can  go  find  some  other  artist  who  won't  be  trou 
bled  by  your  nervousness.  .  .  .  Now,  please  sit  there 
and  look  over  at  that  lamp.  Turn  your  head  a  little 
more  to  the  right — a  little  more  still, — now,  raise  your 
chin.  There,  that's  excellent.  Please  tell  me  when  you 
are  tired." 

Rapidly  he  sketched  in  the  head,  following  the  style  he 
had  used  in  the  drawing  of  Jerry  Hart,  Sherman  had 
praised.  It  came  easily  and  brilliantly.  When  it  was 
half  blocked  in,  he  felt  that,  as  usual,  it  possessed  a  cer 
tain  quality  that  his  finished  work  always  lacked.  So  far, 
it  might  easily  have  passed  for  the  preliminary  sketch 
made  by  a  far  more  able  artist.  As  he  worked,  there 
arose  within  him  that  desire  for  creation  that  had  been 
totally  lacking  for  so  many  weeks.  The  girl's  hair  fasci 
nated  him ;  he  was  eager  to  match  the  tone  of  lustreless 
red,  to  catch  the  Irish  charm  of  the  grey  eyes  with  the 
thick,  long,  bronze  lashes.  His  lack  of  experience  with 
water  colour  did  not  occur  to  him  as  he  laid  aside  his 
pencil  and  turned  to  his  new,  clean  tin  box. 

He  progressed  with  surprising  rapidity,  and  a  certain 
exhilarating  sense  of  elation  began  to  possess  him.  He 
feft'  he  had  been  successful  in  catching  the  girl's  expres 
sion,  which  was  both  winsome  and  appealing.  But,  when 
he  commenced  to  work  up  the  drawing,  he  became  aware 


THE  AMATEUR  179 


of  his  limitations,  his  un familiarity  with  his  medium.  It 
required  infinite  pains  in  adding  one  tone  to  another  after 
the  first  one  had  dried.  Try  as  he  would,  the  freedom 
the  sketch  had  displayed  began  slowly  to  escape  him  and 
his  work  to  tighten  up.  In  despair,  he  tilted  back  in  his 
chair  and  gazed  discouragedly  at  the  half -completed 
drawing.  He  decided  he  was  in  too  excited  a  condition, 
and  it  would  be  better  to  ask  the  girl  to  come  back  on 
the  following  day  and  finish  the  head  then.  He  could 
not  resist  the  temptation,  however,  of  trying  his  hand 
at  the  dull  glory  of  her  hair  at  once. 

After  she  had  rested,  he  began  to  experiment  with  his 
colours,  mixing  various  shades  of  red  with  Chinese  white 
to  destroy  any  brilliancy  the  paint  might  possess.  The 
exact  shade  evaded  him.  The  colour  in  the  mixing  bowl 
repeatedly  seemed  satisfactory,  only  to  dry  to  a  lighter 
or  a  darker  tone  upon  the  paper.  The  edges  of  the  draw 
ing  sheet  in  front  of  him  were  covered  by  his  various 
tests.  Upon  the  floor,  within  reach,  lay  the  wrappings  in 
which  the  new  lamp  had  arrived  that  morning.  A  piece 
of  stiff  brown  strawboard  protruded  from  the  debris, 
and  Carey,  searching  for  something  upon  which  to  try 
a  new  colour  combination,  drew  it  toward  him. 

The  strawboard  instantly  absorbed  the  moisture  and 
left  the  colour  an  even,  flat  tone  of  perfect  smoothness, 
the  exact  gradation  in  shade  he  wanted. 

But  Carey  could  not  get  the  same  effect  upon  the  Wat- 
man  paper.  It  took  him  some  time  to  convince  himself 
of  this.  Also  he  discovered  that  it  was  practically  im 
possible  to  maintain  the  same  quality  of  a  certain  shade 
upon  the  water  colour  paper,  whereas,  on  the  strawboard, 
it  proved  a  simple  matter.  In  disgust  he  closed  his  paint 
box,  determined  to  let  the  matter  wait  over  a  day. 

While  he  had  been  working  over  the  red  colour  combi- 


180  THE  AMATEUR 

nations,  he  had  told  the  girl  to  abandon  the  pose  and  to 
rest  until  he  wanted  her  again.  Now  he  turned  to  find 
her  crouching  by  the  book  case,  a  volume  belonging  to  his 
father  open  upon  her  knee.  She  was  absorbed  in  her 
reading,  and  Carey  watched  her,  amused  and  silent,  while 
she  turned  one  page  after  another.  Gradually  the  in- 
tentness  of  his  gaze  burnt  itself  into  her  consciousness. 
She  turned  with  a  frightened  gesture,  the  book  falling 
to  the  floor,  the  blood  sweeping  her  face. 

"That's  all  right.  Don't  look  so  scared,"  Carey  said 
reassuringly.  "I  was  studying  the  composition  you  made 
as  you  knelt  there.  It  was  interesting.  I  should  like  to 
try  my  hand  at  it  some  time.  I'm  all  through  for  to-day. 
You  can  come  to-morrow?  At  ten?  That's  excellent. 
Here  are  your  three  dollars.  I  hope  you  don't  find  the 
work  too  fatiguing." 

Not  until  she  was  gone  did  he  realise  that  she  had  not 
once  spoken.  She  had  not  even  left  him  her  name  and 
address.  Had  he  been  less  interested  in  his  work,  he 
might  have  been  more  curious  about  her.  As  it  was, 
beyond  thinking  that  she  was  rather  a  funny  girl,  too  self- 
conscious  ever  to  make  a  successful  model,  he  dismissed 
her  from  his  mind  and  turned  eagerly  to  the  strawboard. 

It  was  of  rather  peculiar  texture,  heavy  in  weave,  but 
free  from  the  fibrous  fuzz  that  usually  covers  the  surface 
of  strawboards.  It  was  lighter  in  colour  also,  having  a 
pale,  brownish-grey  shade,  like  the  mats  used  by  picture 
f ramers  for  photographs.  It  was  as  absorbent  as  a  blot 
ter,  and  he  found  that  even  the  thinnest  colour,  when 
mixed  with  Chinese  white,  registered  satisfactorily.  It 
needed  the  Chinese  white,  however,  for  without  it  the 
colour  was  absorbed  with  the  water.  He  began  to  experi 
ment  with  flat  tones,  and  the  more  he  worked  the  more 
excited  he  became.  The  effect  was  astonishing.  The 


THE  AMATEUR  181 


colour  could  be  laid  on  as  evenly  as  though  it  was  pasted 
there  like  a  strip  of  paper.  The  result  was  eminently 
satisfactory;  it  lent  itself  to  the  most  brilliant  poster 
treatments. 

Among  his  father's  books,  that  from  which  he  de 
rived  the  greatest  pleasure  was  a  volume  containing  in 
numerable  miniature  reproductions  of  the  covers  and 
coloured  inserts  of  the  German  periodical,  Jug  end.  It 
represented  the  work  of  the  modern  German  artists,  and 
Carey  was  fascinated  by  the  originality  and  boldness  of 
their  style.  He  got  out  this  book  now,  and  began  to  copy 
some  of  the  designs  that  appealed  to  him.  He  had  to  sup 
ply  his  own  colour  schemes,  but  this  he  found,  with  the 
help  of  the  absorbent  quality  of  the  strawboard  and  his 
own  idea  of  mixing  his  colours  with  Chinese  white,  to  be 
the  most  interesting  part  of  the  work.  What  gave  him 
the  greatest  satisfaction  was  that  this  new  way  of  work 
ing,  the  flat  tones  and  the  poster  treatment,  hid  his  great 
weakness,  the  tightness  of  his  drawing.  When  the  last 
ray  of  afternoon  light  was  gone,  he  found  he  had  used 
up  all  the  strawboard,  even  some  of  the  broken  bits  no 
bigger  than  his  hand.  He  was  very  tired,  but  very  happy. 
It  did  not  matter  to  him  that  his  elation  arose  from  the 
discovery  of  a  trick.  He  did  not  know  just  what  he  had 
accomplished.  Something  told  him  he  had  made  a  dis 
covery  that  would  please  the  Art  Editors ;  but  he  wasn't 
sure  about  it. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  he  awoke  and  lay  for  some 
time  gazing  up  into  the  darkness,  fearing  to  get  up  and 
look  at  his  new  work  lest  he  should  find  he  had  been  mis 
taken  in  it.  The  sudden  doubt  as  to  whether  or  not  it 
would  reproduce  filled  him  with  such  apprehension  that 
he  forgot  his  mistrust  and,  springing  up,  switched  on  the 
light.  For  a  long  time  he  studied  the  hastily  made 


182  THE  AMATEUR 


sketches  of  the  previous  afternoon,  and  finally  went  back 
to  bed  satisfied  and  happy.  He  was  not  certain  about  the 
reproductive  quality  of  his  new  style ;  but,  with  his  work 
itself,  he  was  more  than  pleased.  The  dull,  lustreless, 
flat  tones  against  the  brownish-grey  of  the  strawboard 
were  vividly  effective.  If  his  work  could  not  be  repro 
duced,  he  was  certain  he  could  sell  it  to  the  art  dealers. 

In  the  morning,  he  visited  the  junk  shop  where  he  had 
bought  the  lamp  and,  after  much  difficulty,  persuaded 
the  suspicious  old  Jewish  proprietor  to  tell  him  the  name 
of  the  paper  house  where  he  bought  his  wrapping  paper 
and  strawboard.  There  he  purchased  two  bundles  of  the 
material,  paying  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  for  each  bundle 
of  a  hundred  sheets.  He  was  back  at  his  studio  before 
ten. 

Promptly  on  the  stroke  of  the  hour,  the  girl  arrived. 
Although  still  shy  and  irritatingly  timid,  she  had  not  the 
same  distrust  of  him.  Silently  she  assumed  the  pose,  and 
silently  Carey  plunged  into  his  work.  In  less  than  an 
hour  the  drawing  was  completed,  and  Carey  began  an 
other,  finishing  it  by  noon.  He  dared  not  allow  himself 
to  speculate  on  how  well  he  had  succeeded.  He  only 
realised  he  was  radiantly  happy,  that  the  world  was 
young  and  gracious,  and  that  his  red-headed  model  was 
the  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  world.  He  tried  to  get  her 
interested  in  himself.  As  he  worked,  he  talked  to  her, 
telling  her  of  his  life  at  home,  of  his  mother,  of  Joe, 
of  how  he  used  to  long  to  come  to  New  York,  and  how 
at  last  he  had  realised  his  wish  and  was  now  trying  to  get 
a  foothold  in  that  teeming  city.  Only  when  he  came  to 
speak  of  his  father  did  he  meet  with  any  response  from 
her. 

"They — belonged  to  your  father?"  It  was  the  first 
words  she  had  spoken,  and  her  voice  had  a  quaint  Irish 


THE  AMATEUR  183 


burr  that  Carey  thought  enchanting.  She  indicated  the 
books  as  she  spoke,  and  Carey  nodded. 

"The  music  is  wonderful.  I  looked  at  some  of  it  yes 
terday.  You  have  all  the  Wagner  scores."  Her  voice 
was  warm  and  husky,  but  it  betrayed  the  admiration  she 
could  not  otherwise  express. 

"You  are  fond  of  music?"  Carey  asked. 

Her  swift  glance  was  answer  enough. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  take  some  of  it  home  with  you?" 
he  suggested.  "I  don't  play,  and  I  shouldn't  understand 
it  if  I  did." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  firmly,  compressing  her  lips. 
But  she  did  not  speak.  Carey  decided  that  she  dared  not 
accept  from  him  a  loan  of  what  to  her  seemed  so  infinitely 
desirable.  Presently  he  asked  her  her  name.  There  was 
a  quick  change  of  colour  in  her  face  before  she  an 
swered. 

"Cecilia  Shaughnessy." 

She  gave  him  her  address  and  telephone  number ;  but, 
when  he  asked  her  about  what  previous  experience  she 
had  had  as  a  model,  she  shook  her  head  again.  She  was 
like  a  child  during  its  first  day  at  school.  Her  shyness 
rose  up  as  a  barrier  between  them  at  the  first  personal 
word  about  herself.  Carey  was  filled,  however,  with 
the  desire  to  share  his  exuberance  of  spirits.  He  would 
have  enjoyed  making  love  to  her  for  the  satisfaction  of 
giving  vent  to  the  emotional  ecstasy  that  possessed  him. 
He  knew,  however,  that  one  wrong  word  would  make 
an  end  of  her  visits. 

Sherman  had  not  come  in  from  lunch  when  Carey 
asked  for  him  at  the  offices  of  the  Consolidated  Press 
Syndicate  early  in  the  afternoon.  He  had  carefully 
wrapped  the  two  drawings  separately,  determined  to 


184  THE  AMATEUR 


show  one  to  Sherman  and  the  other  to  Ben  Mercy.  He 
would  thus  obtain  the  opinion  of  two  experts,  and,  if 
neither  agreed  with  him  as  to  the  unusual  quality  of  his 
new  work,  he  would  know  the  worst  at  once.  He  was 
still  under  the  influence  of  the  morning's  excitement,  and 
the  time  appeared  unending  before  Sherman  swung  open 
the  glass  door  to  the  outer  office  and,  catching  sight  of 
Carey,  said,  with  his  Scotch  twinkle  brightening  his  eye : 

"Hello,  Mr.  Indefatigable !    You  here  again?" 

"I've  got  something  .  .  .,"  began  Carey;  but  Sher 
man  cut  him  off  in  his  brusque  manner  and  jerked  his 
head  toward  the  inner  office. 

Following  the  Art  Editor,  Carey  met  little  Jane  Board- 
man  in  the  passage  way.  They  gripped  hands  warmly,  a 
smile  of  frank  pleasure  on  both  faces.  It  was  only  a 
half -minute's  encounter,  just  long  enough  for  the  girl  to 
say: 

"I  thought  you  were  coming  to  see  me,"  and  for  Carey 
to  answer :  "I  certainly  intend  to.  I'll  come  next  week." 

In  the  Editor's  office,  his  hand  trembled  so,  as  he  picked 
at  a  troublesome  knot  in  the  string  about  the  drawing, 
that  he  was  obliged  to  use  the  shears  on  Sherman's  desk. 

"I  remember  I  promised  you  a  yarn,  Mr.  Williams," 
the  Art  Editor  was  saying.  "There  hasn't  been  one  that's 
come  in  yet  that  you  would  want  to  tackle.  The  last  two 
were  both  about  babies,  and  I  know  you'd  prefer  a  fair 
chance  in  the  first  story  I  send  you." 

Carey  crushed  the  wrapping  paper  he  had  stripped 
from  the  drawing  between  his  hands,  tilted  the  piece  of 
strawboard  forward  to  get  the  proper  angle  of  light,  and 
stepped  back  to  give  Sherman  a  clear  view. 

The  Art  Editor  looked  at  the  drawing  a  moment, 
squinted  his  eyes  at  it,  picked  it  up,  ran  his  thumb  over 
the  surface  of  the  board,  turned  it  over  to  examine  the 


THE  AMATEUR  185 


other  side,  shot  Carey  a  quizzical  look,  and  set  it  down 
again.  For  some  moments  he  sat  looking  at  it,  his  face 
hard  and  sharp,  his  eyes  screwed  up  into  a  half  pucker, 
half  squint.  Then  he  said  : 

"This  is  mighty  effective,  Williams.  You've  drawn  a 
beautiful  face.  I  like  your  flat  treatment.  That's  very 
odd — that's  very  distinguished.  That  hair — that's  great ! 
How  the  devil  .  .  .  But  I  won't  ask.  It's  your  secret 
...  I  want  to  show  this  to  our  circulation  man.  Wait 
a  moment." 

Carey  waited  a  long  time.  He  was  aglow  with  Sher 
man's  praise;  but  it  was  so  long  before  the  Art  Editor 
returned  that  he  began  to  wonder  whether  he  had  not  as 
sumed  too  much.  But  Sherman's  face  was  full  of  his 
merry  twinkle  when  he  came  back. 

"For  once,"  he  said,  "our  circulation  manager  and  I 
agree.  We'll  be  glad  to  accept  this  for  a  cover,  Mr.  Wil 
liams,  and  we  want  some  more  like  it." 

Without  replying,  Carey  snapped  the  string  that  bound 
the  other  head  intended  for  Ben  Mercy,  and  slid  it  out 
of  its  paper  covering. 

Sherman  laughed. 

"You  take  a  fellow  up  mighty  quick,  sir !  .  .  .  But  I 
like  this  one  better  than  the  first."  He  bent  closer  to  the 
drawing.  "By  George,  that  colour  is  as  even  as  if  it  had 
been  poured  out  of  a  pitcher!  You've  got  a  great  stunt 
there,  Williams!  .  .  .  Let  me  show  'em  this  one.  I 
hope  they'll  like  it  as  much  as  I  do !" 

This  time  he  returned  almost  at  once.  He  nodded  his 
head  at  Carey,  the  smile  hidden  by  his  sandy  beard  shin 
ing  out  through  the  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"We  want  'em  both,  Williams.  Our  circulation  man 
is  enthusiastic  about  them.  He  thinks  they  have  great 
news  stand  value.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  is  right. 


i86  THE  AMATEUR 

As  a  rule,  we  like  to  get  our  covers  for  fifty  dollars 
apiece,  but  we're  so  pleased  with  these  that  we  are  going 
to  raise  that  to  seventy-five.  Make  some  more  like  'em. 
A  series  would  be  a  good  advertisement  for  both  of  us." 

Carey  was  broadly  grinning. 

"I  knew  they  were  good, — at  least  I  thought  they 
were ;  but  I  was  afraid  you'd  say  that  the  texture  of  the 
board  I  used  would  make  them  difficult  to  reproduce." 

Sherman  squinted  his  eyes  again  at  the  two  pictures 
and  shook  his  head. 

"It  may  even  look  better  in  the  reproduction  than  it 
does  in  the  original." 

Life  took  on  a  new  interest  for  Carey.  On  the  fol 
lowing  morning  when  Cecilia  arrived,  he  commenced  a 
more  elaborate  composition  than  he  had  as  yet  attempted. 
It  was  elaborate  in  that  it  included  more  of  her  figure, 
but  it  was  laid  out  on  the  same  simple  lines  as  the  first  two 
he  had  drawn.  As  he  worked,  a  multitude  of  ideas  for 
different  colour  schemes  and  different  arrangements  of 
her  head  and  hair  occurred  to  him.  He  foresaw  that  he 
could  paint  her  in  an  infinite  variety  of  costumes,  smiling 
or  sad,  coquettish  or  serious,  as  he  chose.  There  would 
be  no  end  to  the  various  combinations. 

It  was  several  days  later  that  Cecilia  reached  Carey's 
studio  at  the  accustomed  hour  in  a  manifestly  agitated 
state  of  mind.  Twice  during  the  sitting  she  was  obliged 
to  wipe  her  brimming  eyes,  and  to  ask,  in  a  low,  husky 
voice,  to  be  excused  for  it.  Carey  had  an  intuitive  under 
standing  of  women.  His  attitude  toward  them  was  al 
ways  deferential  and  courteous.  Something  withheld 
him  from  prying  into  Cecilia's  life  and  history,  which 
she  obviously  regarded  as  her  own  affair.  On  her  first 
visit,  he  realised  that  his  brusque  manner  had  been  hap- 


THE  AMATEUR  187 


pily  the  only  one  which  could  have  persuaded  her  to 
enter  his  studio.  He  had  tried  to  draw  her  out  by  telling 
her  about  himself;  but  to  his  confidences  she  made  no  re 
sponse.  She  interested  him  because  she  was  reserved, 
and  because  she  clearly  had  had  little  or  no  former  ex 
perience  as  a  model;  but  particularly  she  interested  him 
because  her  manners  and  speech  were  innately  refined. 
She  was  well  bred;  moreover,  she  was  beautiful.  In  his 
lonely  life,  her  fresh  young  presence  was  a  delight.  He 
wanted  a  friendship  to  come  of  it. 

So,  on  this  occasion,  he  was  careful  not  to  make  any 
reference  to  her  agitation,  and  he  felt  she  was  grateful. 
But,  after  she  had  gone,  he  speculated  about  it  a  long 
time ;  and  when  she  failed  to  arrive  at  the  appointed  hour 
the  day  following,  his  impulse,  when  he  realised  she  was 
not  coming,  was  to  telephone  to  her.  On  second  thought, 
he  decided  it  would  be  an  excellent  excuse  to  go  to  her 
house.  He  wanted  to  find  out  how  she  lived. 

Her  address  was  on  West  Ninety-second  Street,  near 
Columbus  Avenue.  The  house  was  one  of  a  row  of  old- 
fashioned  brick  fronts,  that  had  been  remodelled  and 
turned  into  apartments.  In  answer  to  the  pressure  of  the 
bell  beneath  the  brass  mail  box  in  the  entry,  the  front 
door  clicked  violently.  He  pushed  it  open  and,  after  an 
unending  climb  of  stairs,  through  dark  halls,  he  found 
her  at  the  top  of  the  last  flight  waiting  for  him.  She 
had  come  out  into  the  hall  to  meet  him,  but,  when  she  rec 
ognised  Carey,  she  was  much  embarrassed.  There  were 
two  entrances  to  the  apartment.  She  had  opened  the  one 
in  the  rear  that  gave  access  to  the  kitchen  and,  not  ex 
pecting  a  social  visit,  she  still  wore  a  large  checked 
apron  that  amply  enveloped  her.  Through  the  open 
door,  Carey  caught  sight  of  a  gas  stove  and  a  steaming 


i88  THE  AMATEUR 


covered  pot.  An  odour  of  cooking  vegetables  hung  in  the 
air.  Sunlight  poured  in  through  the  back  window. 

She  stood  a  moment,  awkwardly  regarding  him,  and 
then,  as  he  began  to  speak,  swiftly  stepped  back  into  the 
apartment,  shutting  the  door  in  his  face.  Taken  aback, 
his  anger  rising,  he  was  about  to  descend  the  stairs,  when 
the  door  at  the  front  end  of  the  hall  opened  and  she  re 
appeared,  the  apron  removed. 

"Please  come  in,  Mr.  Williams,"  she  said.  "I  hope  that 
didn't  seem  rude." 

"I  was  afraid  you  were  sick,"  he  began;  but  she  held 
up  her  hand. 

"Not  one  word  about  the  work,"  she  said,  her  voice 
low  and  quick.  "My  aunt — ,"  she  indicated  some  one 
sitting  within, — '"doesn't  know  I  pose." 

Puzzled,  Carey  followed  her.  The  room  in  which  he 
found  himself  was  unusually  large,  and  gay  with  chintz. 
There  were  chintz  curtains  and  chintz-covered  furniture, 
and  the  wall  paper  was  bright  with  a  twining  rose  design. 
A  little,  white-haired  woman  in  black  came  forward  and 
was  introduced.  They  all  sat  down  stiffly,  and  a  con 
strained  silence  fell  upon  them.  Carey,  not  knowing  on 
what  basis  he  could  explain  his  presence,  waited  for  Ce 
cilia  to  begin.  The  girl  was  equal  to  the  occasion,  how 
ever.  There  was  no  hint  of  the  embarrassment  and  shy 
ness  that  had  possessed  her  at  the  studio.  For  a  few 
brief  moments  her  grey  eyes  swept  the  room,  fixed  them 
selves  for  one  searching  instant  on  Carey,  and  then  turned 
to  her  aunt. 

"Mr.  Williams  is  the  son  of  Mr.  Virgil  Williams, 
Tante.  You  remember  the  man  we  met  at  Mrs.  Swoop's 
reception/'  She  lowered  her  voice.  "You  knew  he — he 
died  ?  Mr.  Williams  has — Mr.  Williams  came  on  to  New 
York  to  arrange  matters." 


THE  AMATEUR  189 


The  old  lady,  who  sat  primly  on  the  edge  of  the  chintz- 
covered  davenport,  raised  her  eyebrows  in  polite  sym 
pathy. 

Cecilia  rambled  on,  Carey  adding  a  confirming  sentence 
now  and  then.  Mr.  Williams  was  an  artist;  Mr.  Wil 
liams  was  a  newcomer  to  New  York, — he  had  not  been 
here  a  year  yet;  Mr.  Williams  had  inherited  a  splendid 
collection  of  piano  music  from  his  father.  All  she  had 
learned  from  Carey  about  himself  she  retold  her  placid, 
white-haired  aunt,  who  dutifully  responded  with  an  occa 
sional  "Oh"  and  "Ah."  Carey,  watching  Cecilia,  mar 
velled  at  her  quick-witted  assurance  and  ease,  so  differ 
ent  from  the  shy,  unresponsive  girl  who  came  to  pose  for 
him. 

Presently  he  rose  and  held  the  thin,  frail  fingers  for  a 
moment,  making  his  adieux.  Cecilia  followed  him  out 
in  the  hall. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  she  said.  "I  can't  tell  you 
how  grateful  I  am." 

"When  and  where  can  I  see  you?" 

She  hesitated. 

"Have  I  offended?"  he  demanded. 

She  glanced  up  to  his  face,  a  look  of  surprise  in  her 
eyes. 

"No, — of  course  not.  I  will  be  walking  in  the  Mall 
in  the  Park  at  four." 

"Thank  you."  He  pressed  her  hand  and  ran  down 
stairs. 

Cecilia  Shaughnessy's  story  was  commonplace  enough. 
She  told  it  to  Carey  while  they  walked  in  the  Park  later 
in  the  afternoon. 

She  was  born  in  Altoona,  Pennsylvania.  Her  father, 
a  happy,  irresponsible  Irish  musician,  had  died  shortly 


190  THE  AMATEUR 


after  his  marriage  to  one  of  the  daughters  of  a  local 
manufacturer.  His  wife  followed  him  four  years  later. 
Cecilia  was  left  to  her  mother's  older  sister,  who 
conceived  a  fierce  affection  for  her  little  niece,  and  reared 
her  with  the  most  rigid  surveillance.  There  had  been  a 
little  money,  just  enough  to  keep  them  decently  com 
fortable.  Music  was  the  one  thing  upon  which  they  disa 
greed.  The  aunt,  who  was  tone  deaf,  had  no  patience 
with  Cecilia's  passionate  love  for  it  and  would  not  give 
one  penny  of  their  meagre  income  for  even  the  rental  of 
a  piano.  The  girl  craved  music  as  a  hungry  man  craves 
food.  It  was  the  nourishment  of  her  soul.  Since  they 
had  come  to  live  in  New  York,  Cecilia  had  never  neg 
lected  an  opportunity  to  go  where  free  music  might  be 
heard.  She  went  on  Sundays  to  various  churches  and  to 
the  Park  when  the  band  played  in  the  afternoon.  She 
frequented  the  concerts  at  the  department  stores  and 
those  given  by  the  manufacturers  of  player-pianos.  In 
the  evening,  when  she  could  get  some  one  to  accompany 
her,  she  went  to  the  free  musical  lectures  at  the  Museum 
of  Natural  History.  But  she  was  not  satisfied.  To  her 
Carnegie  Hall  and  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  were 
palaces  of  enchantment,  for  there  the  Boston  Symphony 
and  the  Philharmonic  Society  held  their  concerts,  the 
greatest  virtuosos  played  and  the  world's  opera  stars 
sang.  To  be  able  to  enter  either  of  these  two  buildings, 
with  the  fortunate  others  who  came  by  carriage  and  au 
tomobile,  who  sprang  up  under  one's  feet,  arriving  from 
this  direction  and  that,  pouring  into  the  doorways  like 
a  black  stream  of  water  being  sucked  into  a  funnel,  would 
be  to  her  the  greatest  happiness  afforded  human  kind. 
Often  she  would  walk  up  and  down  on  the  other  side  of 
the  street,  watching  an  audience  gather  and  disappear 


THE  AMATEUR  191 


within  the  enchanted  gates,   the   longing  to  be  one  of 
them  tearing  her  heart  until  it  became  a  torture. 

One  day,  in  desperation,  she  determined  to  try  to  earn 
some  money  by  posing.  An  artist  she  had  known  had 
once  wanted  to  paint  her.  She  did  not  know  what  else 
she  could  do.  The  thought  that  she  might  be  asked  to 
undress  and  pose  for  the  nude  filled  her  with  terror. 
She  presumed  that  that  was  expected  of  all  models,  and 
this  would  have  been  an  impassable  barrier  to  her.  For 
days  she  wrestled  with  the  idea.  Twice  she  presented 
herself  at  artists'  studios,  only  to  turn  away  at  the  last 
moment,  sick  with  fear.  She  told  her  aunt  that  she 
wanted  to  take  a  course  in  designing  at  the  College  of  the 
City  of  New  York;  this  would  account  for  her  absences 
from  home.  Then  came  the  day  she  had  gone  to  The 
Rembrandt  Studios.  Fearing  that  she  might  be  pre 
vented  from  entering  the  building,  if  it  was  apparent  that 
she  was  soliciting  model-hire,  she  avoided  the  elevator  and 
climbed  resolutely  to  the  third  floor  and  knocked  on  the 
first  door.  A  woman  opened  it;  but  she  was  a  fashion 
artist  and  did  not  use  models.  The  fact  that  Cecilia 
might  get  work  from  an  artist  of  her  own  sex  had  not 
occurred  to  her  before.  It  gave  her  courage.  The  next 
studio  contained  an  individual  with  long  hair,  who  in 
formed  her  curtly  that  he  did  not  engage  models;  he 
was  a  musician.  The  third  was  occupied  by  two  men, 
one  of  whom  sat  working  over  a  drawing  board,  while 
the  other,  a  dressing  gown  about  him,  lay  propped  up  in 
bed  reading.  They  invited  her  to  come  in.  Reluctantly, 
an  instinctive  distrust  of  them  filling  her  heart,  she  en 
tered  and  closed  the  studio  door  behind  her.  For  some 
moments  they  let  her  stand  before  them  without  ad 
dressing  her,  while  they  ran  their  eyes  over  her,  like  cat 
tle  judges  appraising  beef.  This  was  Cecilia's  impres- 


192  THE  AMATEUR 

sion  of  their  attitude.  Finally,  the  man  at  the  drawing 
board  said  to  her: 

"Well,  Bright-eyes,  what's  your  name?" 

It  was  the  inflection  he  gave  the  words  that  sickened 
Cecilia.  Wave  after  wave  of  hot  shame  swept  up  into 
her  face.  She  was  afraid  she  would  faint  there  in  their 
room.  Blindly  she  groped  for  the  door  handle,  flung  the 
door  open,  and  gained  the  refuge  of  the  hall.  She 
walked  down  the  long  corridor  hurriedly,  struggling  to 
regain  her  composure.  At  the  end  of  it  she  waited,  her 
hands  pressed  to  her  burning  face.  She  determined  to 
make  one  more  effort.  She  saw  a  neatly  engraved  call 
ing  card  tacked  upon  a  door.  It  implied  gentility.  She 
came  close  to  read  it.  It  was  Carey's  name. 

On  her  last  visit  to  The  Rembrandt  Studios,  she  had 
met  one  of  the  two  men  who  had  so  frightened  and 
shocked  her.  In  the  hall,  as  she  passed  him,  he  had 
turned  to  watch  her  and  had  called  out  after  her;  she 
didn't  catch  his  words.  It  made  her  feel  degraded.  She 
was  sick  and  giddy  by  the  time  she  reached  Carey's  stu 
dio.  The  next  morning  the  same  man  was  watching  for 
her.  The  studio  he  and  his  sick  friend  occupied  com 
manded,  when  its  door  was  open,  a  view  of  the  brass 
elevator  cage.  The  noise  made  by  the  car  coming  to  a 
stop  and  the  clang  of  the  gate  rolling  back  sufficed  to  ap 
prise  anyone  who  might  be  interested,  that  someone  was 
getting  out  at  the  third  floor ;  a  hasty  glance,  even  from 
the  further  end  of  the  studio,  could  determine  the  iden 
tity  of  the  arriving  person. 

Cecilia,  as  she  stepped  out  of  the  elevator,  saw  him  at 
the  same  time  he  caught  sight  of  her.  Swiftly,  like  a 
hunted  animal,  she  turned  and  ran  down  the  stairs,  out 
'into  the  street.  She  could  not  go  back.  She  felt  sure 
Carey  would  telephone,  and  then  she  would  try  to  ex- 


THE  AMATEUR  193 


plain  matters  to  him.  She  hated  to  give  up  the  sittings. 
Carey  had  always  been  considerate  and  kind,  and  the 
money  earned  gave  her  the  only  feeling  of  independence 
she  had  ever  known.  It  meant  concerts  and  operas  to 
her;  she  had  been  to  hear  the  Kneisel  Quartet  on  Satur 
day  afternoon,  and  had  gone  to  the  Damrosch  concert  on 
Sunday.  It  was  wonderful !  It  had  been  the  only  glimpse 
she  had  ever  had  into  Paradise, — that  she  would  ever 
have.  It  was  all  over.  Her  grey  eyes  became  suddenly 
suffused ;  drops  trembled  on  her  lashes. 

They  had  gone  to  the  Casino  for  tea.  It  had  been  very 
cold  and,  as  they  had  sauntered  up  and  down  the  Mall, 
both  had  become  chilled.  Fortunately,  the  Casino  was 
deserted,  and  it  was  warm  and  pleasant.  From  behind 
the  glass  partition  they  could  see  an  occasional  motor 
spin  past,  scattering  a  fountain  of  slush  to  either  side  of 
the  road. 

"My  dear  Miss  Shaughnessy,"  Carey  said,  "don't  talk 
of  giving  up  your  sittings  because  a  dirty  beast  of  a  fel 
low  insulted  you  in  the  hallway.  I'll  move  my  studio 
first.  I've  told  you  it  looks  as  if  I  was  going  to  catch  on, 
and  I've  got  you  to  thank  for  it.  I  couldn't  let  you  go 
now ;  I  need  you  very  much ;  it  would  be  impossible  for 
me  to  get  along  without  you.  Now,  to-morrow  I'll  be 
waiting  at  the  Paulist  Church  at  ten,  and  I'll  go  with  you 
to  my  studio.  No  one  will  speak  to  you  while  you  have 
an  escort." 

Cecilia  made  a  quick  reach  for  her  handkerchief  and 
caught  the  tears  just  in  time. 

"You're  very  kind,  Mr.  Williams.  I  suppose  I'm  fool 
ish;  but  my  life  has  been  one  constant  repression.  'Don't 
do  this,  Celia'  and  'Don't  do  that,  Celia.'  I've  been 
scolded  and  reprimanded  until  it  doesn't  seem  as  if  I 
could  do  a  thing  without  meeting  my  aunt's  displeasure. 


194  THE  AMATEUR 


You  see,  she  was  eighteen  years  older  than  my  mother, 
and  she's  an  old  woman  now.  She  thinks  it  her  duty  to 
find  faults  in  me.  I  don't  know  why  I  tell  you  all  these 
things.  You  seem  easy  to  talk  to.  I  didn't  know  how  I 
was  going  to  make  you  realise  that  I  wasn't  just  a  model. 
Even  now  I  don't  understand  how  I  ever  came  to  do  it.'* 

Carey  did  not  answer;  he  felt  very  sorry  for  her. 
He  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  be  good  to  this  girl 
and  make  her  a  friend.  They  were  both  young  and 
lonely  and  needed  companionship. 

"You  mentioned  my  father  this  morning,"  he  said. 
"Did  you  and  your  aunt  meet  him?  Tell  me  how  he  im 
pressed  you." 

"I'm  sorry  about  that.  I  hoped  you'd  understand.  I 
said  whatever  came  into  my  head.  My  aunt  wouldn't  re 
member  whom  she  met  at  that  particular  affair,  and  I 
wanted  to  make  her  think  we  had  properly  been  intro 
duced.  Please  forgive  me.  I  hate  to  deceive  her  so.  I 
suppose  you  think  I'm  pretty  wicked." 

Carey  reached  across  the  table  and  took  her  hand. 

"Miss  Shaughnessy — please.  Don't  talk  that  way. 
Let's  you  and  I  be  friends — -real  friends.  I  understand 
you  better  than  you  think.  I've  seen  you  in  your  quiet 
home;  your  gentle  aunt,  however  exacting  she  may  be, 
is  obviously  a  lady,  and  there  is  no  mistaking  you.  I 
need  your  friendship  and  you  mine.  Will  you  accept  it  ?" 

They  smiled  at  one  another  and  pledged  themselves 
in  tea,  touching  cups.  Later  they  walked  home  through 
the  leafless  trees  in  the  gathering  twilight,  the  snow 
stretching  over  the  buried  grass  on  either  side,  broken 
here  and  there  by  irregularly-shaped  brown  patches  where 
it  had  begun  to  melt.  Neither  of  them  said  much,  but 
each  was  conscious  that  a  strong  bond  had  been  estab 
lished  between  them. 


CHAPTER    III 


AS  Carey  stepped  out  of  the  elevator  on  reaching  his 
own  floor,  he  saw  the  closed  door  of  the  studio  which 
had  been  left  open  by  its  occupants  that  morning  to  watch 
for  Cecilia's  arrival.  He  had  not  identified  it  in  his  mind 
as  she  had  described  the  incident,  but  now  he  recognised 
it  as  the  one  he  knew  was  occupied  by  Fleming  Springer. 
His  name  and  that  of  W.  Tilford  were  neatly  lettered 
on  a  card  and  thumb-tacked  to  the  door.  Without  con 
sidering  what  he  was  going  to  say,  but  conscious  of  a  cer 
tain  smouldering  indignation,  he  pushed  the  electric  bell 
and  opened  the  door  at  the  answering  shout. 

The  room  was  about  the  same  size  as  his  own,  but, 
owing  to  its  disorder,  seemed  smaller.  A  litter  of  things 
lay  upon  the  floor.  A  brass  bed,  askew  with  the  angle  of 
the  wall,  the  covers  thrown  over  its  foot,  added  to  the 
confusion.  Under  the  glaring  cluster  of  electric  lights  a 
man,  with  a  heavy  growth  of  unshaven  beard,  clad  in  a 
wadded  silk  wrapper,  sat  at  a  cluttered  table,  eating  some 
smoking  spaghetti  and  drinking  tea.  Beneath  the  dress 
ing  gown  the  legs  of  his  pajamas  protruded,  exposing 
hairy  shins  and  bare  feet  thrust  into  wicker  sandals.  The 
other  occupant,  a  clear-eyed,  clean-faced,  black-haired 
fellow,  wearing  a  pair  of  khaki  trousers,  daubed  with 
paint  and  spotted  with  ink,  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the 

195 


196  THE  AMATEUR 


bathroom  drying  his  hands  on  a  towel.  They  both  looked 
up  inquiringly  as  Carey  entered. 

"You'll  excuse  me/'  Carey  said,  taking  the  plunge  at 
once,  "but  I  want  to  ask  you  fellows  a  favour.  My  name's 
Williams,  and  I  have  a  studio  down  the  hall.  There's  a 
model  who  comes  to  sit  a  couple  of  hours  for  me  every 
morning,  and  one  of  you  chaps  has  scared  her  so  she 
won't  come  any  more.  She's  very  shy  and  new  at  the 
game;  in  fact,  she  never  did  any  posing  before;  but  she 
happens  to  be  just  the  type  I'm  looking  for,  and  I  want 
to  ask  you  not  to  bother  her." 

The  two  men  exchanged  looks  and  both  began  to  laugh. 
The  one  at  the  table  turned  to  Carey : 

"Has  she  wonderful  red  hair,  and  soft,  grey  eyes, 
and  a  perfect  oval  face,  and  a  charming,  shy,  shrinking 
manner?" 

"Oh,  shut  up,  you  lurid  ass!"  the  other  interrupted 
him.  He  came  forward  to  Carey,  wiping  the  last  of  the 
moisture  from  his  hand  and  extended  it  toward  him  with 
such  heartiness  and  good  humour  that  it  instantly  robbed 
Carey  of  his  feeling  of  resentment. 

"My  name's  Springer,  Mr.  Williams,  and  I'm  the  of 
fending  party !  You  tell  the  young  lady  that  I'm  darned 
sorry  I  annoyed  her,  and  I'll  not  bother  her  again.  She 
came  in  here  looking  for  work,  and  I  made  some  face 
tious  remark  that  frightened  her;  I've  been  trying  to 
apologise  to  her  ever  since.  I  saw  her  a  couple  of  times 
on  her  way  to  your  rooms,  and  I  confess  frankly  that  I 
did  rave  a  bit  about  her  looks  to  Tilley.  She  certainly 
is  a  hummer ;  but,  Lord,  I  wouldn't  have  frightened  her 
for  a  million  dollars." 

They  shook  hands  warmly.  Carey  was  conscious  of  an 
instant  liking  for  him.  His  frank,  ingenuous  manner 
swept  constraint  and  reserve  out  of  its  way  as  readily 


THE  AMATEUR  197 


and  unconcernedly  as  an  old  woman's  broom  cleans  a 
dirty  kitchen. 

He  had  a  strong,  clean  face  of  remarkable  beauty  with 
out  being  offensively  handsome.  His  hair  was  thick  and 
intensely  black, — the  glossy  blackness  of  jet ;  he  wore  it 
straight  back  off  his  forehead,  plastered  to  his  skull  like 
a  tight-fitting  black  cap.  His  eyebrows  were  unusually 
heavy,  even  and  dark.  His  mouth  was  large  and  expres 
sive,  and  when  he  smiled — which  was  often — he  showed 
a  double  row  of  large,  perfect  teeth,  white  as  chalk  and 
glistening  as  wet  porcelain.  He  had  a  trick  of  winking 
his  eyes  rapidly  now  and  then,  that  was  nervous  rather 
than  affected.  His  chin  was  square  and,  although  he  had 
just  shaved,  his  beard,  underneath  his  rather  olive  skin, 
showed  blue  black.  It  was  his  sunny  expression  rather 
than  the  regularity  of  his  features  that  made  his  face  so 
likable. 

Til  ford  had  returned  to  the  experiment  of  trying  to 
wind  his  spaghetti  upon  his  fork  and  transfer  it  to  his 
mouth  without  disaster.  In  his  wadded  dressing  gown 
and  bristling  beard,  he  appeared  anything  but  attractive. 
He  was  a  little  bald  and  unhealthily  fat. 

Possibly  Springer  guessed  from  Carey's  glance  be 
tween  them  that  he  was  wondering  at  the  incongruity  of 
the  two. 

"Tilley's  my  cousin,  and  he  thinks  he  ought  to  rag  me 
about  every  girl  I  happen  to  admire.  Tilley's  a  good 
sort,"  he  continued  as  if  the  other  were  not  present ;  "he's 
a  bit  fussy  about  what  he  eats,  but  he's  a  gentle  animal. 
The  dear  creature  has  had  a  touch  of  pleurisy,  and  he's 
grouchy  when  he's  sick.  He's  not  a  pleasant  sight  now,  is 
he,  Williams  ?  But  he  ain't  so  bad  when  he's  shaved  and 
cleaned  up!" 

Carey  laughed,  but  Til  ford  silently  regarded  his  face- 


198  THE  AMATEUR 

tious  room-mate  above  the  rim  of  his  tea  cup.  With  calm 
contempt,  ignoring  him,  he  turned  to  Carey,  as  he  set  the 
cup  down,  and  asked : 

"What's  your  line,  Mr.  Williams?  1  presume  you're 
finding  fashions  as  profitable  as  the  rest  of  'em  these 
days?" 

"No,  I'm  not  clever  enough  for  that,"  Carey  answered. 
He  told  them  a  little  about  himself,  mentioning  his  recent 
success  with  Sherman. 

"Sherman's  a  crank ;  he  doesn't  often  get  enthusiastic," 
rejoined  Tilford.  "He  must  have  liked  your  stuff  very 
much;  I'd  like  a  look  at  it  myself  some  time,  if  you 
wouldn't  mind." 

"Tilley  believes  himself  a  connoisseur/'  Springer 
laughed.  "You  wouldn't  think  to  look  at  him  now  that 
he  was  the  Advertising  Director  of  the  Frank  Peabody 
Company." 

Carey  thought  for  a  moment  that  Springer  was  joking; 
but  something  in  Tilford's  face,  a  look  of  half  amuse 
ment,  half  irritation,  suddenly  convinced  him  that  he 
was  not.  Carey  could  not  conceal  his  surprise.  The 
Frank  Peabody  Company  was  one  of  the  most  enterpris 
ing  and  largest  advertising  agencies  in  the  country,  and 
that  this  slightly  bald,  fat,  unshaven  gentleman  in  wad 
ded  wrapper  should  be  its  Advertising  Director  was  al 
most  unbelievable. 

"He  looks  as  if  he  were  in  the  presence  of  the  Ma 
harajah  of  Rajpootana!"  exclaimed  Springer.  "Brace 
up,  man,"  he  said  to  Carey.  "He's  harmless ;  never  been 
known  to  bite  any  one,  unless  attacked.  Wait;  I'll  get 
something  to  steady  your  nerves."  He  disappeared  into 
the  kitchen,  and  Carey  heard  him  plying  the  ice  pick  in 
the  refrigerator. 

"I  caught  a  rotten  cold  in  my  back,"  Tilford  said,  re- 


THE  AMATEUR  199 


ferring  to  his  illness.  "I  couldn't  take  a  long  breath  with 
out  it  catching  me  like  a  knife  thrust.  I  had  to  pant  like 
a  dog.  They've  had  me  in  bed  for  nearly  three  weeks. 
However,  I'm  quite  all  right  again  and  will  be  able  to  get 
back  to  the  office  on  Monday.  God,  I  hate  being  sick!" 

Carey  said  something  about  it  being  "certainly  fierce" 
and  that  he  was  "mighty  sorry."  He  rose  to  go,  with  a 
pleasant  feeling  that  he  had  at  last  made  two  friends  in 
that  barrack  of  studios,  when  Springer  returned,  the 
stems  of  two  wine  glasses  in  one  hand,  while  in  the  other 
he  twirled  and  rattled  a  nickel-plated  cocktail  shaker. 

Springer  had  mixed  enough  liquor  to  make  four  cock 
tails  and,  as  Tilford  declined  to  join  them,  Carey  and  he 
had  two  apiece.  As  they  were  drinking  them,  the  door 
of  the  apartment  was  burst  open,  and  a  man  thrust  his 
head  into  the  room  with  an  abrupt  exclamation.  He  was 
greeted  with  a  loud  welcome  from  both  of  Carey's  new 
acquaintances. 

"Hello,  Mark!" 

"Come  in,  you're  just  in  time !" 

The  newcomer  accepted  the  invitation,  shutting  the 
door  with  a  backward  thrust  of  his  foot.  He  was  tall 
and  lantern-jawed,  his  eye  was  rather  wild,  but  his  face 
was  unmistakably  the  face  of  a  humorist.  He  was  intro 
duced,  and  Carey  recognised  in  him  the  Mark  Harrison 
whose  distorted,  absurdly  amusing  pen-and-inks  often 
occupied  a  double  page  in  the  comic  weeklies.  He  also 
had  the  reputation  of  being  a  brilliant  cartoonist. 

Springer  disappeared  into  the  kitchenette,  and  pres 
ently  returned  rattling  the  ice-filled  shaker  again.  Har 
rison  had  come  in  to  know  where  Springer  was  going  to 
eat.  He  confessed  he  had  only  a  can  of  sardines  and  the 
remains  of  a  potato  salad  in  his  larder,  and  felt  like 
going  out  to  get  a  decently-cooked  meal.  They  discussed 


200  THE  AMATEUR 


it  while  they  drank  their  cocktails.  Springer  had  refilled 
Carey's  glass  and,  from  a  feeling  of  wanting  them  to  like 
him,  he  had  not  demurred.  An  argument  ensued,  in 
which  Springer,  while  in  enthusiastic  accord  with  Harri 
son's  suggestion  that  they  go  out  and  get  some  decent 
"eats,"  objected  to  the  French  rotisserie  that  Harrison 
advocated.  He  was  in  favour  of  Martin's  or  the  Hof- 
brdu.  Harrison  claimed  he  never  got  his  money's  worth 
at  either  of  these  places;  they  over-charged,  and,  unless 
you  ordered  liberally,  they  made  you  uncomfortable. 

The  two  began  to  call  each  other  grotesque  names; 
Harrison's  epithets  were  so  absurd  and  outrageous  that 
Carey  was  convulsed  with  mirth.  The  discussion  became  a 
contest  in  which  each  strove  to  originate  the  more  ridicu 
lous  term  of  opprobrium  with  which  to  address  the  other. 
Even  Til  ford  was  amused.  He  made  no  noise  when  he 
laughed,  shaking  all  over  like  some  huge  mound  of  jelly. 
Carey's  mirth  became  an  agony;  the  tears  trickled  from 
his  eyes,  while  he  struggled  to  catch  his  breath.  At  his 
importunities,  they  finally  stopped,  more  because  the  fer 
tility  of  their  brains  had  become  exhausted  rather  than  to 
please  him.  The  selection  of  the  dining  place,  however, 
was  still  unsettled.  Carey,  on  whom  the  cocktails  had 
begun  to  have  their  effect,  felt  emboldened  to  propose 
Mouquin's.  The  suggestion  appeared  a  most  happy  one 
to  both.  They  welcomed  it  with  enthusiasm  and  insisted 
that  Carey  should  go  along  with  them.  Pleased,  but 
feeling  it  would  be  better  not  to  accept  too  readily,  he 
made  various  excuses,  but  they  would  not  listen  to  him. 
Springer's  vehement  insistence  warmed  Carey's  heart. 
He  had  conceived  a  deep  admiration  for  this  successful, 
attractive,  free-mannered  youth,  and  Springer's  evident 
liking  for  himself  was  flattering  and  delightful. 


THE  AMATEUR  201 

The  evening  was  a  long-remembered  one.  It  marked 
the  beginning  of  his  friendship  for  Fleming  Springer 
and  a  phase  of  his  own  life  that  was  to  last  for  many 
months.  They  dined  hilariously  at  Mouquin's,  and  later 
drove  about  the  tenderloin  district  crowded  into  a  han 
som  cab.  Carey  had  no  idea  that  there  existed  so  many 
places  which,  instead  of  a  harsher  name,  might  be  called 
dance-halls.  He  had  lived  in  New  York  the  better  part 
of  a  year,  and  with  Jerry  Hart  had  visited  only  the  ones 
that  were  well  known,  like  the  Haymarket  and  Mollie's. 
But  Fleming  Springer  knew  them  all,  and  in  most  was 
known  himself  by  the  stewards  and  waiters.  Their  at 
titude  toward  him  was  deferentially  obsequious,  and  he 
accepted  it  genially,  without  affectation.  Carey  was  puz 
zled  at  first.  He  could  not  understand  wherein  lay 
Springer's  influence.  During  the  early  part  of  the  even 
ing,  the  three  kept  together,  leaving  each  place  after  one 
of  them  had  bought  a  round  of  drinks.  There  was  a 
dearth  of  gaiety  in  these  gaudy  resorts  at  first,  and 
Springer  paid  no  attention  to  the  few  tired-looking  girls 
who  sat  scattered  about  among  the  tables  that  hemmed  in 
the  dancing  floor.  Toward  eleven  o'clock  a  marked 
change  began  to  make  itself  evident;  the  tables  rapidly 
filled  up  and  by  twelve  there  was  not  a  seat  vacant.  As 
soon  as  the  crowd  began  to  gather,  the  girls  who  created 
the  atmosphere  that  made  these  places  seem  brilliant  and 
fascinating,  put  in  their  appearance.  Carey  was  aston 
ished  at  their  quiet,  unassuming,  though  elegant  manner 
of  dressing,  and  their  exquisite  beauty.  He  expected  the 
beauty  of  the  women  of  the  under-world  to  be  coarse, 
marred  and  wasted, — their  manner  of  dressing  conspicu 
ous  and  extreme.  These  late-comers  might  have  been 
one's  sisters  with  their  trim,  severe  tailor-mades,  their 
quiet,  unostentatious  airs,  their  refined  good  looks.  The 


202  THE  AMATEUR 


attitude  they  assumed  was  one  of  disdain  and  disinterest 
edness.  A  man  who  sought  their  acquaintance,  not  prop 
erly  introduced,  found  small  favour  with  them.  They 
looked  about  for  their  own  friends  and  other  habitues 
and  failing  to  find  them  at  one  place,  went  elsewhere  in 
search  of  them. 

All  these  creatures  of  exotic  beauty  knew  Fleming 
Springer.  At  once  his  influence  in  these  cheap  and  taw 
dry  pleasure  haunts  was  explained.  He  was  not  a  lavish 
spender;  he  never  bought  wine,  but  to  these  unfortu 
nate  women  his  charm  was  irresistible.  It  was  his  im 
personal  and  indifferent  manner  with  them,  Carey  de 
cided,  that  made  him  so  attractive.  It  was  not  his  money 
they  wanted;  he  might  have  his  choice  among  them  if 
he  would;  they  wanted  him,  to  be  with  him,  to  be  seen 
with  him,  to  dance  with  him.  He  possessed  some  subtle 
influence  over  them  that  drew  them  to  him  as  moths  to  a 
light.  He  was  magnificently  built :  a  deep  chest  and 
powerful  shoulders,  a  slim  waist  and  narrow  hips.  On 
the  floor,  dancing  the  curious  Coney  Island  walk  that 
was  then  popular,  he  appeared  exceedingly  graceful  and 
handsome.  The  women  at  the  tables  watched  him,  some 
of  them  boldly  trying  to  catch  his  eye. 

But  Springer  was  either  unconscious  of  their  prefer 
ence  for  him,  or  carefully  concealed  his  knowledge  of  it. 
A  certain  girl,  to  whom  he  and  Harrison  referred  as 
Trixie,  failed  to  visit  her  usual  haunts  that  particular 
evening  and,  as  the  night  wore  on,  it  became  imperative 
for  them  that  they  should  find  her.  In  a  hansom  they 
drove  from  place  to  place,  Carey  becoming  more  and 
more  impressed  with  their  familiar  knowledge  of  these 
dives  and  dance-halls.  It  failed  to  disgust  him  as  when 
first  he  had  accompanied  Jerry  Hart.  Under  the  influ 
ence  of  Springer's  genial  society,  it  was  only  gloriously 


THE  AMATEUR  203 


reckless.  He  was  conscious  that  he  was  splendidly  young, 
and  that  it  was  delightful  to  be  in  Springer's  company. 

Failing  to  locate  Trixie,  they  decided  it  was  time  to 
eat  again,  and  drove  to  Jack's.  Somehow,  Springer's 
personality  secured  them  a  table  in  that  crowded  restaur 
ant.  Women  glanced  at  him,  and  to  a  few  he  bowed, 
showing  his  white,  glistening  teeth  in  an  expansive  grin. 
Every  one,  so  it  seemed  to  Carey,  was  conscious  of  his 
charm  and  good  looks.  He  needed  but  to  wish  people  to 
like  him,  and  they  began  to  love  him. 

At  Jack's,  after  they  had  finished  their  bacon  and 
scrambled  eggs,  they  lost  Harrison.  He  had  left  their 
table  to  speak  to  some  one,  and  failed  to  return.  After 
looking  for  him  a  long  time,  it  finally  occurred  to  Carey 
to  inquire  of  the  hat  boy  if  the  tall  man  who  had  checked 
his  hat  with  theirs  had  gone  out.  The  boy  was  under 
the  impression  that  he  had.  It  remained  only  for 
Springer  and  Carey  to  go  home.  But  neither  of  them 
wished  to  do  so.  Although  they  had  been  drinking  heavily, 
they  assured  each  other  that  they  were  not  in  the  least 
intoxicated.  They  decided  to  get  an  open  carriage  and 
drive  out  to  a  place  called  "The  Crow's  Nest,"  which 
Springer  characterised  as  a  "nifty  joint." 

Toward  four  o'clock,  they  found  their  way  back  to 
The  Rembrandt  Studios.  Both  of  them  were  very  much 
under  the  influence  of  liquor;  they  were  drunk  by  now, 
but,  although  they  occasionally  staggered,  they  still  had 
some  portion  of  their  wits  about  them.  At  a  certain 
stage  of  their  intoxication,  Carey  and  Springer  had 
grown  sentimental  and  had  expressed  their  liking  for  one 
another,  pledging  eternal  friendship.  It  had  been  a  thrill 
ing  moment,  and  it  was  of  that  Carey  thought  when 
he  woke  the  following  morning,  his  head  racking,  his 
nerves  shaken  to  pieces,  his  mouth  dry  and  flannelly.  It 


204  THE  AMATEUR 


seemed  to  him  that  it  had  been  a  wonderful  night,  and 
Springer's  declaration  of  friendship  the  most  wonderful 
thing  that  had  happened  in  it. 

The  immediate  result  of  his  new  friendship  was  Til- 
ford's  enthusiasm  for  his  recent  work.  Springer  told 
him  about  it,  and  one  evening  Til  ford  came  in  "to  have 
a  look  at  his  stuff,"  as  he  expressed  it.  Carey  had  fin 
ished  five  studies  of  Cecilia.  With  each  drawing,  he 
made  of  her,  he  felt  his  hand  became  more  practised. 
He  was  able  to  get  more  "postery"  effects  and  to  allow 
himself  to  take  certain  liberties  that  a  little  earlier  he 
would  not  have  dared  attempt.  He  was  developing  a  ten 
dency  to  tone  down  his  work  rather  than  make  it  "con- 
trasty"  or  brilliant.  He  began  to  try  for  the  colour  ef 
fects  of  the  great  French  painter,  Puvis  de  Chavannes. 
The  pale,  flat  tones  refined  his  work  and  strengthened  its 
quality. 

Tilford  made  no  pretence  of  hiding  his  pleasure.  The 
following  day,  Carey  brought  the  five  studies  down  to 
Til  ford's  office.  Frank  Peabody  himself  came  in  to  meet 
the  artist  and  to  look  at  his  work.  He  and  Tilford  be 
gan  an  unintelligible  conversation  with  regard  to  its  ap 
peal  to  an  individual  whose  name  Carey  gathered  was 
Gernhardt.  Tilford  asserted  that  it  was  just  what  Gern- 
hardt  wanted,  "something  distinctive  and  original." 
Peabody  was  noncommittal,  reflectively  rubbing  his  chin. 
A  few  days  later,  Carey  received  an  order  for  a  series  of 
twelve  heads  from  The  Frank  Peabody  Company.  They 
agreed  to  pay  him  fifteen  hundred  dollars  for  the  dozen 
drawings.  They  were  to  be  used  as  poster  advertise 
ments  for  a  new  department  store  that  was  shortly  to 
open  in  New  York.  In  the  meantime,  Carey  had  sold 
three  of  the  five  he  had  already  finished  to  Sherman  and 


THE  AMATEUR  205 


the  two  remaining  ones  to  Ben  Mercy.  He  received  but 
fifty  dollars  apiece  for  the  last,  as  Mercy  could  only  use 
them  on  the  jackets  of  books.  Heads  were  not  appropri 
ate  for  the  cover  of  Stapleton's,  but  Mercy  was  full  of 
praise  for  Carey's  new  work,  and  patted  him  approvingly 
on  the  back. 

"You'll  make  a  hit  with  this  work,  my  boy.  This  is 
what  the  public  likes.  The  magazines  and  advertis 
ers  will  be  running  after  you;  they'll  be  like  a  pack  of 
hungry  wolves  on  your  trail.  But  .  .  .  but  .  .  ."  He 
hesitated,  glancing  at  Carey  as  if  appraising  him.  "Let  me 
give  you  a  piece  of  advice :  Keep  your  head ;  don't  let  them 
make  a  fool  of  you;  don't  think  because  they  come 
flocking  after  you,  you  have  done  something  that  will 
carry  you  along  for  the  rest  of  your  life.  You've  dis 
covered  a  new  twist  to  an  old  appeal.  You  haven't  in 
vented  the  appeal  itself.  They  will  quit  you  when  they 
are  tired  of  you  as  quickly  as  now  they  clamour  for  you. 
Make  this  trick  of  yours  serve  you  as  long  as  it  will. 
Keep  humble,  see  clearly,  and  work  for  something  more 
permanent.  Don't  let  your  popularity  turn  your  head. 
You  have  a  great  future  before  you  if  you're  big  enough 
to  seize  it  and  handle  yourself  rightly.  I  like  you  and 
I'd  like  to  see  you  succeed." 

Carey  glowed  in  the  warmth  of  Ben  Mercy's  approval. 
He  had  won  success.  The  great  city  he  had  grown  to 
love  so  dearly,  with  its  sweating  millions  fighting  their 
daily  fight  for  food  and  the  right  to  exist,  had  not  crushed 
him.  He  recalled  his  first  impression  of  New  York  from 
the  forward  end  of  the  Christopher  Street  ferry  boat.  In 
retrospect  he  seemed  so  young,  so  unequipped  then.  He 
was  a  man  now,  a  man  who  had  made  his  mark ! 

Much  he  owed  to  Cecilia  Shaughnessy.  He  was  think 
ing  of  her  as  he  made  his  way  homeward.  Without  her 


206  THE  AMATEUR 


he  never  would  have  accomplished  what  he  had.  She 
was  an  ideal  model,  always  punctual,  never  distract 
ing  him  while  she  posed,  taking  her  departure  when 
her  time  was  up,  silently  and  unobtrusively.  If  he  did  not 
feel  like  working,  she  would  understand  his  mood,  and, 
under  her  gentle  influence,  the  desire  for  fresh  effort 
would  gradually  awake  within  him.  But  always  there 
was  an  air  of  distress  about  her  while  she  was  at  the  stu 
dio  ;  she  was  ill  at  ease,  constrained  and  timid.  It  was  not 
that  she  distrusted  him,  but  rather  that  she  felt  her  pres 
ence  there  with  him  unwarranted. 

As  he  sat  comfortably  in  the  corner  of  the  Broadway 
car  he  had  taken,  and  gazed  absently  out  into  the  street, 
he  wondered  what  he  could  do  to  make  her  happy,  make 
her  feel  more  at  home  in  the  studio,  make  her  perhaps  be 
gin  to  like  him  the  way  he  had  grown  to  like  her.  She 
was  so  dear !  So  companionable !  He  was  always  sorry 
for  her  when  he  thought  about  her. 

As  if  in  answer  to  his  thoughts,  a  sign  in  a  store  win 
dow, — one  among  the  many  he  passed  unread  and  un 
noticed, — suddenly  registered  upon  his  consciousness : 
"Pianos  Rented— Five  Dollars  a  Month !" 

He  gazed  at  it  fascinated,  twisting  his  head  to  a  painful 
angle  as  the  car  swept  past.  Abruptly  he  struggled  to  his 
feet,  signalled  the  conductor,  and  swung  himself  to  the 
street  before  the  car  came  to  a  standstill. 

The  expression  on  Cecilia's  face  when  she  came  the 
following  morning  amply  repaid  him  for  his  thought  and 
the  trifling  expense.  She  threw  him  one  of  her  quick, 
expressive  glances  and,  stripping  off  her  gloves,  raised  the 
ebony  lid  and  seated  herself  on  the  revolving  stool.  For 
a  moment  she  regarded  the  silent  keys,  her  hands  folded 
in  her  lap.  Carey  watched  her,  conscious  of  the  deep 
emotion  that  possessed  her.  Then  the  unhesitating  fin- 


THE  AMATEUR  207 


gers  were  raised  to  the  keyboard  and  she  began  to  play. 
Carey  was  astonished.  He  had  expected  the  attempt  of 
a  novice,  a  girl  who,  though  perhaps  a  passionate  music 
lover,  had  no  technique.  Cecilia  was  an  accomplished 
musician;  she  played  easily  and  brilliantly,  wringing  the 
melodic  harmonies  from  the  instrument  as  only  a  person 
can  who  has  herself  and  the  piano  under  perfect  control. 

"My  grandmother  in  Altoona  had  an  old  square  Chick- 
ering,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  Carey's  surprised  remark. 
"I  learned  to  play  when  I  was  five  years  old.  The  mother 
of  one  of  my  little  playmates  taught  me,  and  after  that 
I  used  to  practise.  My  grandmother  liked  the  hymns,  but 
Tante  never  showed  any  interest.  Since  we  moved  to 
New  York,  I  have  only  had  a  chance  now  and  then  at  a 
piano,  and  no  one  knows,  Mr.  Williams,  how  much  I  have 
longed  at  times  for  the  touch  of  the  ivory  keys."  She 
put  her  hand  to  her  eyes  and  for  a  moment  was  silent. 
Then,  in  a  lower  tone,  she  said  very  slowly,  her  voice  full 
of  the  huskiness  that  Carey  always  found  so  charming: 
"I  have  a  great  deal  for  which  to  thank  you,  Mr.  Wil 
liams." 

During  the  intermissions  when  she  rested  from  the 
constrained  position  of  the  pose,  and  after  the  work  of 
the  day  was  over,  Cecilia  used  to  play.  She  revelled  in 
the  music  of  Carey's  father.  Carey  had  always  been  in 
different  to  music.  He  could  grow  enthusiastic  over 
popular  songs,  but  had  never  been  educated  to  an  appre 
ciation  of  a  better  grade.  In  her  attempts  to  make  him 
understand  it,  Cecilia  at  first  only  partially  succeeded. 
He  was  content  to  lie  on  the  couch  while  she  played, 
smoking  cigarettes  endlessly.  A  curious,  sensuous  de 
light  would  envelop  him  after  a  while.  The  music  had 
a  hypnotic  effect.  At  such  times  he  ceased  to  think.  His 


208  THE  AMATEUR 


eyelids  drooped,  and  he  lay  back  among  the  cushions 
soothed,  deliciously  content. 

It  was  during  one  of  these  moments  that  Springer 
came  to  see  him.  It  was  the  first  occasion  that  he  had 
not  been  welcome.  Carey  would  have  stopped  him  at 
the  door,  but  Springer,  with  the  abrupt  cessation  of  the 
music,  opened  it  without  waiting  for  the  answer  to  his 
knock.  Cecilia,  when  she  recognised  him,  rose  hastily  to 
her  feet,  one  hand  at  her  breast,  her  head  bowed,  her 
eyelids  lowered.  The  situation  was  awkward.  Carey 
introduced  them,  but  Cecilia  only  inclined  her  head 
slightly ;  she  did  not  raise .  her  eyes.  Springer  began 
to  talk  to  Carey  about  the  Spring  Exhibition  at  the 
Academy,  and  Cecilia  slipped  into  her  hat  and  coat  and, 
without  addressing  either  of  them,  left  the  room. 
Springer  regarded  the  closed  door  a  moment  without 
speaking. 

"She's  sore,  isn't  she?"  he  said. 

"She's  a  shy  thing!  I  dare  say  she  regards  you  as  the 
Mephistopheles  of  the  situation,"  Carey  answered. 

"She's  charming.  You're  a  lucky  chap,  Carey!" 
Springer  said,  cheerfully  significant. 

Carey  laughed  nervously. 

"You're  way  off,  my  boy,"  he  replied.  "There's  noth 
ing  doing." 

"Oh!" 

The  exclamation  was  little  more  than  a  sound  in 
Springer's  throat,  and  yet  it  expressed  his  utter  disbelief, 
and  implied — so  Carey  felt — a  disappointment  in  Car 
ey's  valuation  of  their  new  friendship,  which,  presuma 
bly,  was  not  of  sufficient  weight  to  permit  such  confi 
dences.  Carey  wanted  Springer  to  feel  that  he  regarded 
him  as  his  chum,  the  best  friend  he  had  ever  had.  Un 
consciously,  in  his  admiration  for  him,  he  had  begun  to 


THE  AMATEUR  209 


imitate  Springer's  manner,  his  appearance,  his  style  of 
dress,  and  easy  speech.  That  Springer  should  doubt  his 
whole-hearted  affection  for  him,  should  consider  him 
miserly  in  his  confidences,  distrusting  him,  was  intoler 
able  to  Carey.  He  longed  to  share  Springer's  secrets,  and 
stood  only  too  ready  to  tell  him  anything  and  everything 
about  himself  that  Springer  cared  to  know.  He  did  not 
analyse  his  feelings  in  what  he  said  next.  He  was  con 
scious  only  of  being  hurt  and  desiring  that  Springer 
should  not  misunderstand  him. 

"I  tell  you,  Springer, — I  hate  to  talk  about  a  girl. 
You've  got  to  protect  'em  often  against  themselves.  You 
know  I  haven't  had  much  experience  with  women;  I'm 
a  perfect  tyro  with  'em,  compared  to  you.  It  took  me 
some  time  to  get  wise  to  Cecilia.  She's  a  nice  girl  all 
right, — but  she's  like  the  rest  of  'em.  I'm  not  the  kind  of 
a  fellow  that  'kisses  and  tells.'  I've  got  no  secrets  from 
you,  however.  She's  a  wonder,  and  you're  right,  I  am 
a  lucky  chap." 

"My  girl's  gone  to  Palm  Beach,"  Springer  said  reflec 
tively.  "A  rich  guy's  footing  the  bills ;  he's  Cunningham 
Bates  of  the  United  States  Suit  and  Cloak  Company;  bar 
rels  of  money — makes  fifty  thou  a  year.  She  came  to  me 
and  asked  me  whether  she  should  go.  I  told  her  to  run 
along ;  I've  got  no  money  to  spend  on  women.  She  writes 
me  almost  every  day." 

He  pulled  out  of  his  inside  breast  pocket  two  or  three 
bulky  letters  addressed  to  him  in  an  angular,  feminine 
handwriting. 

"I'd  like  you  to  read  'em ;  she's  a  clever  kid.  Go  ahead, 
read  'em,"  he  insisted,  as  Carey  hesitated.  "She'll  be 
coming  back  in  a  few  weeks,  and  I  want  you  to  meet  her. 
I  wrote  her  all  about  you  the  other  day." 

Carey  flushed  with  pleasure.    It  was  very  flattering  to 


210  THE  AMATEUR 


know  that  Springer  thought  enough  of  him  to  write 
about  him  to  his  girl.  He  shook  out  the  closely  written 
sheets  from  an  envelope  and  began  to  read. 

It  was  a  new  experience  for  him.  He  felt  he  was 
prying  into  the  sacred  privacy  of  a  woman's  soul.  His 
loyalty  to  Springer  would  not  permit  the  thought  that  his 
friend  was  guilty  of  any  breach  of  confidence  in  show 
ing  the  letters.  They  were  curious  samples  of  the  abuse 
of  the  English  language.  Illiterate  and  badly  spelled, 
they  yet  possessed  a  certain  quality  that  indicated  their 
writer,  whatever  her  educational  disadvantages,  had  a 
feeling  for  beauty  and  poetry.  No  one  could  question  the 
girl's  sincerity.  Every  other  word  was  one  of  endear 
ment.  She  poured  out  her  affection  for  Springer  unre 
servedly.  Her  love  for  him  shone  from  the  pages  she 
covered  with  her  writing.  One  of  her  sentences  Carey 
remembered  for  a  long  time : 

"When  the  sun  shines  on  you,  my  darling,  it  is  my  love 
that  is  warming  you ;  when  it  rains,  the  drops  upon  your 
cheek  are  my  caresses ;  and  when  it  snows,  the  soft  flakes 
upon  your  lips  are  my  kisses." 

Carey  could  not  understand  how  a  woman,  who  evi 
dently  loved  so  deeply,  could  live  with  another  man,  ac 
cept  his  money,  and  deceive  him  by  a  continued  pretence 
of  affection.  He  said  as  much  to  Springer.  His  friend 
laughed. 

"What  the  devil  is  she  to  do?  I  can't  afford  to  keep 
her,  and  I  won't  marry  her!" 

Carey  was  silent.  It  seemed  all  wrong.  Springer 
talked  on,  telling  him  of  his  various  experiences  with 
women.  It  was,  if  true,  an  astonishing  history.  Springer 
told  it  all  too  readily  to  be  doubted,  and  Carey  had  seen 
for  himself  his  influence  with  women  of  the  under-world. 
Such  men  as  Jerry  Hart  and  Springer  were  new  to 


THE  AMATEUR  211 


Carey;  if  there  were  those  like  them  in  his  home  town, 
he  had  been  too  young  to  know  them.  Neither  Jerry 
Hart  nor  Springer  considered  himself  unusual.  The  men 
they  knew  were  all  more  or  less  like  themselves.  Women 
were  their  life,  their  chief  interest.  It  was  men  like  Carey 
who  were  unusual ;  he  was  letting  his  opportunity  slip ;  he 
was  asleep  to  the  pleasures  that  might  be  his.  He  was  a 
molly-coddle.  Women  he  met  must  hold  him  in  con 
tempt.  He  was  too  slow. 

He  thought  of  these  things  for  several  hours  after 
Springer  left  him  that  afternoon.  The  letter  he  had 
read  haunted  him.  It  must  be  wonderful  to  be  loved 
like  that !  Carey  longed  for  such  affection.  He  felt  him 
self  much  more  deserving  of  it  than  Springer,  who  ob 
viously  held  it  in  light  esteem,  allowing  some  one  else  to 
share  what  might  be  his  alone.  Carey  could  not  criticise 
Springer.  He  recognised  him  as  a  victim  of  his  own 
charm.  He  was  presumably  selfish;  he  had  been  spoiled 
by  every  one  all  his  life;  why  shouldn't  he  be  selfish? 
No  one,  Carey  felt,  who  was  so  spontaneous,  so  generous, 
so  warm-hearted  and  affectionate  could  be  capable  of 
anything  really  blamable.  Women  fawned  upon  him; 
men  lavished  their  favour  upon  him ;  he  was  only  human. 
Carey  was  sure  he  understood  Springer,  even  on  such  a 
short  acquaintance,  better  than  others  who  had  known 
him  for  many  years. 

When  Cecilia  Shaughnessy  arrived  the  next  morning, 
there  was  a  new  light  in  Carey's  eyes  as  he  looked  at  her. 
She  was  in  higher  spirits  than  he  had  ever  seen  her. 
She  had  gone  with  a  girl  friend  to  the  Boston  Sym 
phony  the  previous  evening.  They  had  played  the 
Brahms  second  symphony  and  a  suite  by  Bach  in  D  ma 
jor.  She  had  never  heard  such  music.  It  had  carried 
her  right  to  the  gates  of  heaven.  The  marvellous  har- 


212  THE  AMATEUR 


monies  had  been  haunting  her  all  night.  It  was  such  a 
pity  Carey  did  not  understand  music;  he  lost  so  much 
pleasure  in  life. 

She  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  played  from  memory 
the  beginning  of  the  second  movement  of  the  Brahms 
symphony.  Carey  watched  her  face,  radiant  with  the  joy 
the  music  gave  her.  He  decided  she  had  one  of  the  most 
perfect  profiles  he  had  ever  seen.  An  exclamation  burst 
from  him.  She  whirled  around  on  the  stool,  believing 
the  music  had  at  last  reached  him. 

"Isn't  it  wonderful !  Could  anything  be  more  divinely 
inspired?"  She  was  glowing  with  enthusiasm. 

"Yes — yes,  it's  great/'  Carey  agreed.  "It  just  struck 
me,  as  you  sat  there  playing  that  way,  what  a  stunning 
picture  you'd  make  as  your  namesake,  the  saint, — Saint 
Cecilia!  By  George,  I  never  thought  of  it!" 

"Didn't  you?"  she  said.  "My  mother  named  me  that 
because  she  was  so  fond  of  music!" 

"I  suppose  it  was  stupid  of  me  not  to  have  thought  of 
it  before.  'Cecilia'  is  a  lovely  name.  It  fits  you  like  a 
glove."  He  paused  a  moment.  "I  wish  I  did  understand 
music.  Your  enjoyment  of  it  is — is  infectious;  it  must 
be  wonderful  to  get  so  much  pleasure  out  of  anything. 
Sometimes  a  great  piece  of  Art  by  a  master  affects  me 
that  way.  Perhaps,  if  I  grew  more  familiar — > — " 

She  interrupted  him,  eagerly. 

"That's  what  I  say!" 

"Well — why  can't  I  go  with  you  to  some  of  these  con 
certs.  You  could  explain  it  to  me  before  we  went,  so 
I'd  understand." 

Her  eyes  widened  and  her  face  grew  bright  at  the 
suggestion. 

"Why,— why  not  ?"  she  exclaimed.  "It  isn't  often  that 
I  can  get  away  on  Tante's  account.  I  hate  to  deceive  her 


THE  AMATEUR  213 


as  I'm  doing,  but  she  doesn't  understand  what  music 
means  to  me !  I'm  sure  she  wouldn't  mind  our  going  to 
gether.  It  isn't  as  though  she  hadn't  met  you." 

"We'll  have  a  wonderful  time,"  Carey  said.  "Tell 
your  aunt  you're  going  to  have  dinner  with  one  of  your 
friends,  and  we'll  go  down  town  and  dine!  After  that 
we  can  take  in  the  concert  or  opera!" 

"Opera !"  she  cried.  "The  opera  by  all  means.  I  hate 
to  confess  it,  but  I've  never  been  inside  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House." 

"Nor  have  I !" 

In  their  enthusiasm,  their  hands  touched.  For  a  mo 
ment  Carey  felt  the  warm  tips  of  her  fingers  on  his. 
A  wave  of  colour  rushed  into  her  face  and  she  drew  away 
quickly,  turning  her  head  to  hide  it. 


CHAPTER    IV 


SPRING  was  in  the  air.  March  had  blown  itself  out 
with  its  own  winds.  April  had  come  in  cold  and 
snowy.  It  did  not  seem  as  if  the  city  would  ever  shake 
off  the  winter's  grip.  Then,  suddenly,  almost  overnight, 
spring  arrived.  The  sun  blazed  down,  the  air  grew  per 
ceptibly  warmer ;  there  was  an  elusive  green  haze  among 
the  branches  of  the  trees,  so  long  denuded  and  dead. 
Carey  felt  it  in  his  blood.  His  feet  tingled  with  it;  he 
imagined  he  was  walking  continually  upon  his  toes.  New 
York,  like  some  prostrate  giant,  rose  dripping  and  ra 
diant  from  the  cold  bath  of  winter,  and  smiled.  Ten 
days  of  delicious,  penetrating  sunny  weather  lashed  the 
lagging  spring,  as  a  jockey  flogs  his  horse.  The  tiny 
green  buds  fairly  poked  themselves  out  of  their  bursting 
shells  and,  before  one  was  aware,  spring  had  come. 

Carey  was  happier  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life. 
He  met  Doctor  Floherty  on  the  street  one  day.  It  brought 
back  to  him  the  uneventful,  dismal  days  at  Mamma  Mug- 
gins',  and  he  saw  himself,  cooped  up  in  his  room  under 
the  roof,  indifferent,  lazy,  asleep  to  the  possibilities  that 
lay  about  him,  satisfied  with  the  money  his  monogram- 
making  brought  him,  stupid  and  sottish.  It  was  hard  to 
believe  that  it  had  been  himself.  Doctor  Floherty  was 
warm  in  his  greeting.  He  wanted  Carey  to  come  and 
lunch  with  him  some  day,  and  Carey  promised.  The  old 

214 


THE  AMATEUR  215 


crowd  at  the  Fillmore's  had  broken  up;  some  Filipinos 
had  come  to  board.  It  wasn't  the  same  as  it  used  to  be. 
He  wanted  to  congratulate  Carey  on  his  cover  design  on 
the  Consolidated  Weekly.  It  was  a  stunning  thing. 

The  reproductions  of  the  designs  that  Sherman  had 
purchased  confirmed  what  the  Art  Editor  had  predicted : 
they  were  more  effective  than  the  originals.  The  en 
graver's  proofs  had  been  sent  to  Carey  for  correction, 
but  there  were  no  changes  to  be  made.  The  weave  in 
the  texture  of  the  strawboard  was  almost  lost,  but 
enough  remained  to  produce  the  effect  of  a  Ben  Day 
screen.  It  was  discernible  only  in  the  background,  and 
it  gave  the  whole  design  a  soft,  rich  tone.  Carey  was 
delighted. 

Orders  for  work  came  in  with  satisfying  regularity. 
Gernhardt,  through  the  Frank  Peabody  Company,  sent 
an  order  for  another  half  dozen  of  Carey's  heads.  Sher 
man  agreed  to  take  twelve,  to  be  run  on  the  first  issue  of 
each  month, — the  fiction  number.  A  big  Philadelphia 
weekly  rejected  two  that  Carey  had  sent  them,  because 
they  only  used  two  colours ;  but  East  and  West  promptly 
took  these  and  paid  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  apiece 
for  them.  The  Art  Editor  of  Overman's  wrote  him  that 
Mr.  Ben  Mercy  had  mentioned  some  cover  designs  by 
Mr.  Williams  that  were  unusual  and,  if  he  would  give 
Overman's  a  look  at  them,  the  Art  Editor  would  promise 
a  prompt  decision.  Carey  considered  his  answer  for 
some  time.  It  was  a  strong  temptation  to  square  ac 
counts  with  this  man  for  the  rude,  inconsiderate  manner 
in  which  he  had  treated  Carey  only  a  few  months  be 
fore.  He  finally  replied  briefly  that  he  sold  his  work 
only  on  order  and,  if  the  Art  Editor  wished  to  see  him 
regarding  it,  he  could  find  him  during  the  mornings  at 
The  Rembrandt  Studios.  While  there  was  nothing  vin- 


216  THE  AMATEUR 


dictive  about  Carey,  he  enjoyed  this  retaliation  hugely. 
Springer  shared  the  feeling.  The  Art  Editor  of  Over 
man's  was  well  known  for  his  treatment  of  artists,  and 
none  of  the  good  men  would  accept  work  from  him  if 
they  could  afford  to  let  it  go. 

Carey's  liking  for  Springer  increased  rather  than  di 
minished.  Constantly  they  went  about  together,  to  din 
ner,  to  the  theatre,  to  the  polo  grounds  when  the  base 
ball  season  opened.  They  discussed  plans  for  spending 
the  summer  together  and  for  sharing  a  studio  the  follow 
ing  season.  In  addition  to  the  money  he  earned  from 
his  work,  Springer  had  a  steady  income  from  a  piece 
of  business  property  in  Flushing  that  his  uncle  had  left 
him;  and,  with  Carey's  increasing  popularity  and  rising 
prices,  they  felt  they  could  afford  more  comfortable  quar 
ters  and  perhaps  keep  a  servant. 

One  hot  day  toward  the  end  of  May,  Springer  and 
Carey  drove  out  to  the  Park  Casino  in  a  hansom,  and 
had  breakfast.  It  was  Sunday  morning  about  eleven 
o'clock.  The  glass  storm  windows  had  been  taken 
down,  the  red-striped  canvas  awning  had  been  rolled 
down  over  the  stone  flagging,  and  the  little  round  tables 
had  been  set  out,  each  covered  with  its  white  cloth. 
Something  compelling  in  the  mellow  sunshine  and  the 
green  that  was  making  itself  evident  in  the  trees  and 
lawns  had  suggested  the  Casino  as  a  pleasant  spot  for 
breakfast  to  others  beside  Carey  and  Springer.  The 
place  was  rilled,  but  they  found  a  vacant  table  by  the  iron 
railing.  About  them  arose  a  gay  murmur  of  laughter  and 
chatter.  Carey  had  never  seen  so  many  gorgeously  at 
tired  women.  He  was  conscious  of  the  spring  millinery 
and  the  covert  looks  and  remarks  with  which  certain  hats, 
more  conspicuous  than  others,  were  discussed. 

"Actresses!"  Springer  whispered  to  Carey  across  the 


THE  AMATEUR  217 


table.  "They  love  to  hang  out  here  Sunday  mornings. 
It's  a  bit  early  for  'em  to  be  out,  but  I  guess  it's  the 
weather.  Good  Lord,  Carey,  look  at  that  creature  in 
green!  Upholstery,  I  call  it." 

It  was  a  wonderful  hour.  The  sun  lay  warm  and 
grateful  on  Carey's  neck.  The  birds  twittered  in  the 
hedges  and  garden  beds.  The  odour  of  coffee  and  broil 
ing  chops  drifted  appetizingly  from  the  kitchen.  There 
was  a  feeling  of  merriment  and  gaiety  in  the  air.  Every 
one  was  conscious  of  the  golden  morning.  Several  par 
ties  were  opening  champagne. 

"As  I  live!"  Springer  exclaimed,  "it's  Myra!" 

He  jumped  to  his  feet  and  wormed  his  way  between 
the  tables,  and  presently  Carey  saw  him  bending  over  a 
lady's  chair.  A  strange  emotion  possessed  Carey.  Myra 
was  the  girl  who  had  written  Springer  from  Palm  Beach. 
He  felt  certain  he  would  be  called  over  and  introduced. 
At  the  moment,  he  would  have  given  everything  he  pos 
sessed  to  have  been  spared  the  embarrassment  of  that  in 
troduction.  He  saw  Springer  being  presented  to  the 
others  at  the  table,  and  then  caught  his  eye  as  he  turned 
toward  him  and  beckoned.  It  was  an  age  before  he 
reached  them. 

"Miss  Rossiter— this  is  Mr.  Williams." 

Carey  bowed.  There  were  other  introductions — an 
other  girl  and  two  men,  one  of  whom  was  rather  fat 
and  heavy-lidded.  His  cigar  ashes  lay  in  a  cascade  down 
the  front  of  his  bulging  vest. 

Myra  Rossiter  was  even  more  beautiful  than  Carey 
expected  from  the  innumerable  photographs  Springer 
had  shown  him.  She  was  dressed  exquisitely;  her  face, 
under  the  drooping  lace  that  edged  her  hat,  was  faultless ; 
her  hair,  brown  and  soft,  hung  low  over  her  ears;  her 
throat,  where  the  lace  came  together  at  her  breast,  was 


218  THE  AMATEUR 


white  and  delicately  curved  as  marble.  Her  beauty  was 
the  luscious  type,  lavish,  prodigally  luxuriant.  Nothing 
about  her  suggested  the  type  Carey  knew  her  to  be.  Only, 
as  she  raised  her  eyes  to  Springer,  there  lurked  in  them, 
so  he  thought,  a  hint  of  the  love  she  dared  not  show. 

After  they  had  finished  eating,  Carey  and  Springer 
wandered  out  into  the  Park.  For  a  brief  moment,  when 
they  had  risen  from  the  table,  Carey  caught  Myra  Rossi- 
ter's  eye.  She  turned  as  they  made  their  way  toward  the 
broad  steps  to  the  driveway,  and  smiled  at  Springer  when 
he  bowed.  There  was  a  separate  little  nod  for  Carey.  It 
was  pleasant  and  friendly,  and  a  sudden  liking  for  her 
rose  within  him.  It  increased  his  admiration  for  his 
friend  who  had  the  affection  of  a  girl  so  radiantly 
beautiful,  so  unaffectedly  gracious,  no  matter  what  the 
conduct  of  her  life  might  be.  As  they  sauntered  along 
the  concrete  walks  that  wound  under  the  trees,  Springer 
told  him  of  his  first  meeting  with  Myra  and  their  rela 
tionship.  She  was  a  Weber  and  Fields  girl,  one  of  the 
choicest  of  those  that  made  up  that  chorus,  so  celebrated 
for  its  beauty.  He  had  wandered  into  a  Broadway  cafe 
with  a  friend.  Myra  and  another  girl  were  sitting  at  a 
table  across  the  room,  with  two  young  boys,  both  much 
affected  by  the  champagne  they  had  been  liberally  order 
ing.  They  were  obviously  rich  men's  sons  squandering 
their  money.  Springer  raised  his  glass  as  Myra  looked 
toward  him,  and  she  returned  his  smile.  Presently  he 
went  over  and  spoke  to  her.  She  greeted  him  as  an 
old  friend  and,  while  the  two  youths  glowered  at  him, 
not  knowing  whether  or  not  to  resent  his  intrusion,  she 
asked  him  to  take  her  home.  The  other  girl  was  a  chance 
acquaintance ;  the  boys  would  soon  be  too  drunk  to  know 
what  they  were  about. 

That  had  been  the  beginning.     A  friend  of  the  stage 


THE  AMATEUR  219 


director,  Cunningham  Bates, — the  fat  man  with  the 
drooping  eyelids,  who  had  been  with  her  at  the  Casino — 
was  paying  the  rent  of  the  apartment  in  which  she  lived 
on  Fortieth  Street.  He  was  the  manager  of  one  of  the  big 
gest  suit  and  cloak  concerns  in  the  city.  Fortunately  he  was 
often  out  of  town,  but  he  was  extremely  jealous  of  Myra, 
and  was  always  laying  traps  to  catch  her  at  a  double  game. 
The  minute  he  left  town,  she  would  ring  up  Springer, 
and  the  two  would  have  a  mad  round  of  reckless  enjoy 
ment,  not  parting  from  one  another  until  he  returned. 

"And  if  he  came  back  unexpectedly?"  Carey  asked. 

Springer  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"He  did  once,  but  she  lied  out  of  it.  Did  you  see  him 
look  at  me  to-day?  He  suspects  she's  playing  him,  and 
she  stands  an  uncomfortably  close  chance  of  having  him 
wring  her  pretty  little  neck  if  he  ever  finds  her  out/' 

Carey  looked  at  him,  puzzled  and  interested. 
Springer  cared  so  little  for  this  wonderful  girl's  favour. 
He  would  throw  it  aside  like  an  old  coat  some  day.  At 
present,  her  beauty,  and  the  admiration  she  excited,  flat 
tered  him.  Other  men  envied  him.  He  enjoyed  Carey's 
wonder  and  interest.  It  was  of  small  consequence  to 
him  that  Myra  loved  him.  He  had  always  treated  her 
squarely,  he  told  Carey,  frankly  informing  her  that  he 
had  no  money  to  throw  away.  When  they  were  out  to 
gether,  he  paid  the  bills ;  when  they  ate  at  her  apartment, 
she  was  the  hostess.  There  were  too  many  women  in 
the  world,  he  said,  for  him  ever  to  be  content  with  one. 

It  was  all  true;  Carey  knew  Springer  was  not  lying. 
It  was  that  which  made  it  all  appear  so  unutterably  be 
wildering.  As  Springer  talked  on  in  his  free,  unreserved 
manner,  Carey's  heart  writhed  within  him.  To  have 
some  one  love  him  as  Myra  Rossiter  loved  Fleming 
Springer!  Oh, — that  would  be  too  wonderful  to  be  ever 


220  THE  AMATEUR 


possible!  Even  the  fat  suit-and-cloak  man,  who  was 
being  duped  and  laughed  at,  he  envied.  To  provide  for 
such  a  creature,  and  at  least  command  her  pretended 
affection,  was  worth  while.  Carey  longed  for  some  wom 
an's  love.  He  asked  nothing  more  than  her  companion 
ship.  He  was  not  ready  for  marriage.  He  had  never 
experienced  the  desire  for  it ;  it  did  not  occur  to.  him.  It 
only  seemed  to  him  extremely  beautiful  for  these 
two  people — 'so  graciously  favoured,  so  young  and  lithe 
— to  wander  about  the  city  together,  happy  in  each  other's 
company,  enjoying  their  pleasures,  utterly  irresponsible. 

He  said  as  much  to  Springer.  The  other  burst  into 
one  of  his  infectious  laughs. 

"Good  God,  man !  What  are  you  kicking  at  ?  Haven't 
you  got  Cecilia  Shaughnessy?  She's  worth  a  thousand 
Myras!" 

Carey  was  dumb.  His  mind  whirled  about  in  a  swift 
vortex  of  thought.  It  kept  on  spinning  all  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon  and  far  into  the  night.  Anna's  face  kept 
bobbing  up  before  him;  he  saw  again  her  convulsed 
shoulders  heaving  in  her  soundless  mirth ;  he  heard  once 
more  her  supplicating  cry  of  "Jerry!  Oh,  my  darling!" 
Then  came  the  purple,  congested  face  and  the  starting 
eyeballs !  Round  and  round  Duzzed  his  thoughts :  Anna 
• — Myra — Cecilia !  Anna — Myra — Cecilia ! 

Toward  supper  time,  he  went  up  to  Mark  Harrison's 
room,  and  together  they  drank  a  great  deal  of  whiskey. 
It  left  him  unaffected  and  cold.  When,  finally,  he  fell 
asleep,  his  troubled  thoughts  gave  him  no  rest.  Myra 
came  to  him,  beautiful  and  graceful,  diaphanous  draperies 
floating  about  her.  Hand  in  hand,  he  fled  with 
her  through  long  forest  glades.  Beneath  the  towering 
trees,  the  ground  was  soggy  and  marshy.  Often  he 
stumbled,  his  feet  slipping  from  under  him.  He  heard 


THE  AMATEUR  221 

her  voice  calling  him.  Then  it  was  the  fat  suit-and-cloak 
manager  who  pursued  him,  and  her  voice  reached  his 
ears  mockingly.  He  woke  tired  and  in  the  grip  of  acute 
neuralgia.  He  tried  to  make  some  coffee  for  himself 
on  the  tiny  gas  stove,  but  the  small  round-bottomed 
saucepan  slipped  on  the  iron  prongs  of  the  burner  and 
upset. 

When  Cecilia  arrived,  she  found  him  lying  on  the 
couch,  a  towel  across  his  eyes  to  shade  them  from  the 
glaring  reflection  of  the  sun  that  streamed  in  through  the 
huge  skylight  above  his  head.  She  was  full  of  sympathy. 
She  did  not  offer  to  go;  she  hung  up  her  hat  and  long, 
loose  coat  and  presently  brought  him  some  tea  and  held 
the  saucer  while  he  leaned  upon  one  elbow,  draining 
the  strong,  hot,  soothing  brew  from  the  cup.  Then  she 
pushed  his  drawing  table  close  to  the  couch,  tilting  its 
surface  to  intercept  the  blinding  north  light,  and  presently 
she  began  to  play.  The  music  swept  majestically  up 
into  the  treble,  like  a  wave  spreading  itself  fan-like  over 
the  sand,  and,  pausing,  rushed  precipitately  down  into 
the  bass.  The  cadences  of  the  swift  rippling  measures 
never  varied  as  the  girl's  white  hands  ran  lightly  from 
one  end  of  the  piano  to  the  other.  Carey,  where  he  lay, 
could  see  the  shadow  of  Cecilia's  back  as  it  swung  to 
and  fro  like  a  pendulum.  Silently  he  sat  up  and  watched 
her. 

Round  went  his  thoughts  in  the  giddy  whirl  that  had 
possessed  his  mind  through  the  preceding  night  and  day. 

"Cecilia — my  Cecilia!"  His  lips  formed  the  words. 
Why  not?  Just  as  Myra  was  Springer's  Myra.  He  saw 
Cecilia  and  himself  loitering  over  their  breakfast  cups; 
he  saw  them  wandering  in  the  country  together,  stopping 
for  the  night  at  some  wayside  inn,  to  rise  early  to  go  on 
in  the  morning;  he  saw  them  dining  at  some  curious 


222  THE  AMATEUR 


cafe  and  going  to  the  theatre,  settling  comfortably  in 
their  seats,  waiting  for  the  play  to  begin;  he  saw  her 
looking  up  at  him  with  love  shining  out  from  her  grey 
eyes  as  it  had  shone  from  Myra's  when  she  turned  her 
face  up  toward  Springer's. 

He  had  risen  and  was  standing  behind  her  as  her  slim 
body  followed  her  hands  up  and  down  the  instrument. 
Suddenly  he  gripped  her  in  his  arms,  thrusting  his  face 
to  hers,  close,  his  lips  against  her  half  opened  mouth,  so 
that  the  edge  of  her  teeth  hurt  him  as  he  pressed  her  to 
him. 

"Ugh!— Ah-h!" 

With  both  hands  against  his  chest,  Cecilia  pushed  him 
from  her.  For  a  moment  they  regarded  each  other,  the 
girl  struggling  to  catch  her  breath.  Then  she  struck  him, 
— the  knuckles  clenched,  the  heel  of  the  palm  out, — struck 
him  fiercely,  with  every  ounce  of  strength  she  possessed, 
bringing  her  half -shut  fist  down  upon  his  unprotected 
face.  With  every  blow,  a  gasp  of  fury  escaped  her. 

"You  beast — 'beast — beast — beast — beast !" 

Carey  staggered  back  against  the  couch,  covering  his 
bruised  face  with  both  his  hands.  He  heard  the  long, 
quivering  intake  of  her  breath  and  the  dry  sobs  that 
shook  her  as  she  stood  s\vaying  before  him.  He  did  not 
look  up.  Unsteadily  she  walked  toward  where  her  hat 
and  long  coat  lay.  She  did  not  wait  to  put  them  on.  She 
picked  them  up  and  opened  the  studio  door.  Carey  raised 
his  head  in  time  to  see  it  close  behind  her. 

Slowly  he  rose  to  his  feet,  regarding  the  empty  studio 
dazedly.  His  eyes  rested  on  the  open  piano  that  a  few 
moments  before  had  vibrated  to  the  rippling  cadenzas  that 
flowed  from  her  nimble  fingers.  It  was  impossible  that 
so  much  had  happened  in  so  brief  a  space  of  time !  In  less 
than  two  minutes  the  irreparable  had  occurred.  That 


THE  AMATEUR  223 


was  the  end  of  Cecilia  Shaughnessy!  She  would  never 
enter  his  life  again. 

Wearily,  his  feet  dragging  after  him,  he  passed  into 
the  bathroom  to  examine  his  bruised  face.  Beneath  his 
left  eye  lay  the  mark  of  her  knuckles.  He  bathed  this  in 
cold  water,  applying  to  it  the  witch  hazel  he  used  after 
shaving  with  a  saturated  end  of  the  towel.  As  he 
dabbed  at  the  spot,  he  gazed  reflectively  into  his  own  eyes 
that  stared  back  at  him  from  the  mirror. 

He  paused  a  moment,  his  brow  darkening. 

"You  fool!"  he  said,  addressing  himself.  "You  un 
utterable  ass !" 

God !  What  a  fool  he  had  been !  What  a  clumsy  fool! 
That  was  what  hurt  him  most  to  remember.  He  had 
bungled  the  business  pitiably,  unforgivably.  How 
Springer  would  laugh  at  him  if  he  knew !  Carey  thumped 
the  top  of  his  aching  head  and  shut  his  eyes  as  the  humili 
ation  and  the  shame  of  what  had  happened  swept  over 
him. 

"Fool !    Fool !    Fool !"  he  said  aloud. 

At  first  he  was  concerned  only  with  the  sorry  figure  he 
had  cut.  He  had  aspired  to  follow  in  Springer's  footsteps 
— and  what  a  mess  he  had  made  of  it !  Presently,  how 
ever,  he  began  to  consider  Cecilia, — poor,  shy,  timid 
Cecilia.  Undoubtedly,  she  had  told  herself  with  pride 
that  she  understood  men,  that  she  could  trust  her  intu 
ition,  that  Carey  was  different  from  the  others,  that  with 
him  it  was  safe  to  go  to  his  studio,  sure  of  his  considera 
tion  and  respect.  Carey  sank  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
bath  tub  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  The  contempt 
with  which  he  regarded  himself  was  past  expression. 

After  a  while  he  began  to  analyse  the  situation.  It 
was  bad;  but  it  might  have  been  worse.  He  was  in  no 
sense  in  love  with  Cecilia ;  he  had  liked  her.  She  had  been 


224  THE  AMATEUR 


companionable  and  an  excellent  model.  He  had  drawn 
so  many  portraits  of  her,  he  felt  sure  he  could  "fake" 
her  face  in  any  pose  that  was  necessary.  It  made  little 
difference  to  him  whether  or  not  he  ever  saw  her  again. 
That  did  not  matter.  What  hurt  him  like  a  twisting 
sword  blade  through  his  heart  was  that  he  had  so  mis 
judged  her,  that  he  had  outraged  her  so  unforgivably,  had 
so  demeaned  himself  in  her  eyes. 

Half  inspired  by  a  desire  to  do  the  thing  that  would  be 
hardest,  half  prompted  by  the  wish  to  correct  an  utterly 
false  impression  he  had  given  regarding  her  virtue,  he 
determined  to  tell  Springer  the  truth  about  her  and  to 
confess  to  him  what  an  utter  fool  he  had  been. 

He  found  him  in  his  studio,  busily  working  over  some 
pen-and-ink  headings  he  was  making  for  one  of  the  fiction 
monthlies.  He  burst  into  his  confession,  blurting  out 
the  details  of  the  final  episode,  wandering  back  to  the 
account  of  his  call  upon  her  at  her  home,  his  walk  with 
her  in  the  Park,  returning  again  to  the  time  when,  to 
make  himself  appear  as  a  man  of  the  world  in  Springer's 
eyes,  he  had  deliberately  insinuated  that  she  was  his 
mistress.  He  had  to  shut  his  eyes  when  he  came  to  this, 
forcing  the  words  from  him  by  sheer  force  of  will.  He 
refused  to  show  himself  any  mercy,  but  stated  the  facts 
baldly,  proffering  no  excuses.  It  was  a  bitter  ordeal  for 
Carey,  but  he  compelled  himself  to  go  through  with  it 
unflinchingly. 

When  he  had  finished  it  was  some  time  before 
Springer  spoke.  While  Carey  rambled  on,  he  had  con 
tinued  at  his  work,  his  face  a  few  inches  from  his  pen 
point.  Occasionally  he  would  tip  back  in  his  chair,  squint 
ing  his  eyes  at  his  work,  twisting  his  head  from  side  to 
side. 

Having  delivered  himself  of  all  there  was  to  say,  Carey 


THE  AMATEUR  225 


grimly  determined  to  add  nothing  more.  He  waited  for 
Springer  to  break  the  silence.  A  sick  fear  filled  his  soul 
that  his  friend  was  too  disgusted  with  him  to  speak  his 
mind. 

"I  never  did  think  she  was  that  kind  of  a  girl," 
Springer  said  at  length. 

Carey  waited  for  what  he  would  say  in  condemnation 
of  his  own  miserable  part,  but,  presumably,  Springer  in 
tended  to  make  no  further  comment. 

"I  say,  Carey,  Myra's  coming  down  to  take  dinner 
with  me.  Why  don't  you  come  along  ?  You  know  me ! 
If  I  didn't  want  to  have  you,  you'd  never  get  asked!" 

It  was  Carey's  turn  to  delay  his  answer.  A  rush  of 
affection  for  Springer  overwhelmed  him.  He  realised 
they  understood  each  other;  it  was  the  nearest  they 
could  come  to  expressing  their  true  feelings.  He  had 
not  thought  Springer  capable  of  so  much  sentiment,  at 
least  with  regard  to  himself.  Since  he  had  come  to  know 
him,  he  had  often  thought  of  Joe  Downer;  he  had  con 
ceived  much  the  same  sort  of  blind  affection  for  Springer 
that  Joe  had  for  himself.  He  strove  to  conceal  it,  but 
he  knew  that  Springer  was  aware  of  it;  he  was  accus 
tomed  to  adoration  from  both  men  and  women.  Not 
until  this  moment  had  he  given  Carey  any  reason  to  be 
lieve  that  his  affection  was  returned  in  any  degree. 
Springer  did  not  propose  to  judge  him;  he  presumably 
had  occasions  of  his  own  to  remember  when  he  had  made 
a  mess  of  things.  Searching  about  for  some  way  in 
which  to  convey  this  idea  to  Carey,  he  had  proposed  that 
he  accompany  Myra  and  himself  to  dinner.  It  would 
have  indicated  that  Carey  had  not  caught  his  meaning,  if 
he  declined  the  invitation. 

Picking  up  one  of  Til  ford's  pipes,  Carey  began  forcing 
the  damp  tobacco  into  its  bowl. 


226  THE  AMATEUR 


"You're  a  king,  Springer,"  he  said.  Each  silently 
pursued  his  own  train  of  thought,  and  presently  Carey 
asked : 

"I  don't  suppose  you'll  dress?" 

"Good  Lord,  no." 

They  met  Myra  in  the  ladies'  waiting  room  at  the 
Knickerbocker  Hotel.  She  was  a  vision  of  loveliness. 
She  wore  a  severely  simple  gown  of  clinging  black  silk, 
set  off  with  tiny  ornaments  of  jade,  while  about  her  neck 
hung  a  beautifully  wrought  gold-and-jade  pendant.  The 
demureness  of  this  costume  was  in  striking  contrast  to 
her  hat  of  French  straw,  surmounted  by  a  superb  bird 
of  paradise.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  make-up  on  her 
delicately  tinted  skin.  Her  excessive  beauty  drew  the 
eyes  of  men  and  women  alike,  and  Carey,  knowing  that 
she  must  be  conscious  of  the  attention  she  attracted,  mar 
velled  at  her  affected  indifference  and  carefully  assumed 
ease  of  manner.  Every  gesture  and  every  attitude  were 
the  result  of  careful  study.  She  had  grown  so  accus 
tomed  to  admiration  that  it  no  longer  embarrassed  her, 
and  her  movements  betrayed  no  suggestion  of  restraint. 

They  dined  in  the  grill  room  of  the  hotel.  At  first  a 
feeling  that  he  was  the  unnecessary  third  person  filled 
Carey  with  a  certain  diffidence.  Springer  was  obviously 
anxious  that  he  and  Myra  should  be  friends;  but  Carey 
knew  that  the  girl's  heart  and  eyes  were  for  his  friend 
alone.  Not  that  she  betrayed  her  preference  by  look  or 
word ;  Carey  was  only  conscious  of  it  in  his  heart.  She 
was  very  gracious,  and  she  had  an  infectious  little  silvery 
laugh  that  ran  up  and  down,  which  he  thought  delightful. 
The  food  and  the  wine  warmed  them,  and  presently  all 
three  seemed  the  best  of  friends. 

Myra  was  being  urged  by  some  girl  friends  to  join  the 


THE  AMATEUR  227 


chorus  of  The  Belle  of  Mayfair,  a  new  Edwardes  opera 
brought  over  from  England,  for  which  the  company 
was  being  then  assembled,  owing  to  an  early  fall  opening. 

"It  means  a  lot  of  hard  work/'  she  said,  "and  I'd  like 
something  better  than  just  chorus.  What  I  did  when 
Lew  Fields  took  me  into  It  Happened  in  Nordland  com 
pany  suited  me  down  to  the  ground.  I  never  had  a  better 
time  in  my  life  than  that  winter."  She  smiled  reminis- 
cently. 

Carey  bent  forward  eagerly.  This  touch  of  stage  life 
suggested  a  thousand  other  thrilling  details.  The  theatre 
to  him  had  always  been  what  the  enchanted  land  of 
princes  and  fairies  is  to  a  child.  That  Myra  knew  about 
all  that  happened  behind  the  curtain  of  mystery  thrilled 
and  fascinated  him.  It  threw  an  added  glamour  about 
her. 

"I'm  awfully  soft,  anyhow,"  she  continued.  "I  haven't 
done  any  work  for  two  years,  and  it  would  be  dreadfully 
hard  to  get  back  into  condition.  It's  exciting, — that's  the 
only  trouble — and  I  often  long  for  the  excitement." 

"I  bet  you  do,"  murmured  Carey. 

She  smiled  at  his  intentness.  It  was  in  marked  con 
trast  to  Springer's  obvious  indifference.  Carey  felt  she 
wanted  his  friend  to  show  more  interest.  She  appealed 
to  him  unconsciously  on  every  topic  that  came  up.  Con 
tinually  she  sought  his  approval,  absurdly  and  pathetically 
dreading  the  lack  of  it.  Carey  decided  that  she  was  more 
infatuated  with  Springer  than  in  love  with  him.  He  felt 
sorry  for  her.  Springer  regarded  her,  he  knew,  as  some 
exotic  flower  by  which  to  be  amused,  from  which  to  in 
hale  the  perfume,  to  be  enjoyed  for  an  idle  hour.  A  wave 
of  dizzying  emotion  swept  over  Carey  at  the  thought  of 
how  eagerly  he  would  return  her  affection  were  he  in 
Springer's  place. 


228  THE  AMATEUR 


They  were  still  discussing  the  advisability  of  her  going 
back  to  the  stage.  Carey  was  absorbed  in  everything  she 
said.  As  he  leaned  toward  her,  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
he  was  aware  of  a  delicious  fragrance  that  emanated 
from  her.  It  was  the  subtlest  of  perfumes,  but  not  the 
less  intoxicatingly  sweet.  She  was  a  ravishing  creature. 
He  noted  in  turn  the  tiny  transparent  lobe  of  her  ear, — 
the  soft  triangle  of  pink  flesh  beneath  it  formed  by  her 
hair  and  the  curve  of  her  cheek, — -the  limpid,  glistening 
eyes,  so  bright  and  clear,  elongated  and  narrowing  toward 
her  temples, — the  delicate,  sensitive  nostril, — the  cupid's 
bow  of  her  red  lips  that  now  and  then  parted  in  a  smile 
that  showed  her  twinkling  teeth.  But  it  was  the  swiftly 
changing  colour  in  her  cheek  that  fascinated  him.  Bend 
ing  close,  he  watched  it  come  and  go,  flooding  her  face  a 
warm  pink  when  she  laughed  heartily,  leaving  it  an 
alabaster  white  when  it  ebbed.  He  could  barely  discern 
the  fine  particles  of  powder  upon  her  nose.  Only  in  the 
elongation  of  the  almond-shaped  eyes  did  she  betray  her 
class.  It  was  a  very  slight  sign,  but  it  was  unmistakable. 

So  intent  was  he  in  studying  her  that  he  unconsciously 
leaned  further  toward  her  than  he  intended.  He  was 
made  aware  of  the  absurdity  of  his  attitude  by  Springer's 
laugh. 

"Good  Lord,  man!  You'll  bore  two  holes  straight 
through  the  woman  if  you  stare  at  her  that  way!  Have 
a  heart!" 

Myra  reached  for  his  hand  and  drew  it  into  her  lap. 

"Now,  let  him  alone,"  she  said.  "I  like  Mr.  Carey 
Williams  very  much." 

Carey's  head  swam.  The  touch  of  her  long,  slim 
fingers  sent  the  blood  pounding  from  his  heart.  He 
knew  he  was  blushing;  his  face  burnt  as  if  it  was  afire. 
They  both  laughed  at  him,  and  he  feebly  attempted  to 


THE  AMATEUR  229 


join  them.  He  tried  to  concentrate  his  mind,  watching 
Springer  tap  the  end  of  a  cigarette  against  the  back  of 
his  hand  to  shift  the  tobacco  from  its  mouthpiece;  but 
the  touch  of  her  slim  fingers  still  lingered;  the  palms  of 
his  hands  were  moist  and  his  lips  were  dry  and  hard. 

He  did  not  regain  control  of  himself  even  when  they 
were  outside,  although  the  nimble  wind  of  the  night  was 
like  a  dash  of  cold  water  in  his  face.  It  was  tacitly  under 
stood  that  he  was  to  leave  them  now.  They  would  drop 
into  some  vaudeville  show  or  garden  of  pleasure  before 
they  went  home.  Carey  turned  to  Myra  and  she  held  out 
her  hand.  Springer  was  giving  an  order  to  the  starter 
for  a  taxicab.  As  Carey's  fingers  closed  gently  over  the 
girl's,  a  wild  desire  rose  in  his  heart  to  have  her  know 
how  much  he  liked  her. 

"We  both  are  good  friends  of  his,"  he  said,  "and  I 
want  you  and  I  to  be  good  friends  as  well." 

The  smile  was  whipped  from  her  lips  as  she  looked  up 
into  Carey's  eyes,  her  own  troubled  and  serious. 

"You  love  him,  too,"  she  whispered.  "I  know  it.  Let 
me  have  him  as  long  as  I  can  hold  him.  Promise  you'll 
help  me!" 

Carey  drew  a  trembling  breath;  his  lips  quivered;  a 
slight  dizziness  blurred  the  exquisite  features  so  near 
his  own. 

"I  promise.  But  when  that  is — is  over,  will  you  promise 
me  something!"  he  stammered. 

"Yes — anything,"  she  answered  carelessly. 

He  helped  her  into  the  taxi-cab  and  waved  to  Springer 
who  leaned  out  of  the  window  as  they  whirled  away. 

Carey  walked  home.  That  Myra  was  a  prostitute,  that 
she  was  deliberately  deceiving  the  man  to  whom  she  had 
sold  her  virtue,  that  she  was  lost  to  all  sense  of  decency, 


230  THE  AMATEUR 


mattered  not  to  Carey.  She  seemed  to  him  wonderfully 
beautiful,  young  and  pure.  And  Springer  was  so  clean 
and  fine  and  handsome.  He  speculated  on  their  mating, 
and  it  struck  him  that  there  could  be  nothing  vile  or 
sordid  about  it.  They  were  so  young,  so  perfectly  made, 
so  god-like.  His  heart  ached  for  some  such  experience  of 
his  own.  It  was  the  call  of  the  female  that  stirred  him. 
It  was  spring,  and  all  the  world  was  mating.  There  was 
nothing  sensual  about  this  yearning.  With  Anna  Blanch- 
ard,  it  had  been  the  animal  in  him  that  awakened.  She 
had  roused  a  side  of  his  nature  of  which,  until  then,  he 
had  been  unconscious.  But  now,  he  was  lonely.  He 
wanted  a  comrade,  a  woman  whom  he  could  love  and 
protect,  and  who  would  love  him  in  return, — love  him  the 
way  Myra  loved.  God !  He'd  work  his  two  hands  to  the 
bone  for  such  a  love.  It  was  the  most  precious  thing  in 
life!  Some  day,  sometime,  some  woman  would  learn 
how  deeply  he  could  love. 


CHAPTER  V 


CROWDING  events  that  pursued  Carey  these  days 
were  brought  to  an  abrupt  halt  by  the  arrival  of  a 
special  delivery  letter  from  Joe  Downer.  Carey  had 
gone  with  Springer  to  a  dance  at  one  of  the  Columbia 
College  fraternity  houses  the  night  before,  and  had 
reached  his  bed  after  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  It  was 
the  persistent  ringing  of  the  postman  at  a  quarter  past 
eight  that  finally  roused  him.  His  first  sensation,  as  he 
sat  upon  the  side  of  his  bed,  while  the  electric  bell  con 
tinued  its  compelling  summons,  was  that  he  had  smoked 
too  much.  His  mouth  was  brassy,  his  throat  burned. 
Sleep  clung  to  him  tenaciously,  weighing  down  his  eye 
lids,  while  his  head  swung  helplessly  from  side  to  side. 
Between  each  prolonged  vibration  of  the  bell,  he  lapsed 
back  into  complete  unconsciousness.  A  peremptory 
knock,  added  to  the  irritating  whirring,  at  last  brought 
him  to  sufficient  wake  fulness  to  stumble  to  the  door, 
dazedly  open  it,  sign  for,  and  receive  the  letter. 

When  he  again  awoke,  it  was  almost  two  in  the  after 
noon.  On  the  table  lay  the  letter  where  he  had  dropped 
it  before  he  had  fallen  back  into  bed.  Now,  with  his 
mind  clear,  he  picked  it  up  and  turned  it  over  in  his  hand, 
a  disquieting  apprehension  filling  his  heart.  He  knew  it 
was  about  his  mother  before  he  opened  it,  and,  simultane 
ously  with  the  thought  of  her,  there  rose  within  him  an 

231 


232  THE  AMATEUR 


accusing  sense  of  neglectfulness.  He  had  failed  her  as 
he  had  failed  his  father.  There  were  so  many  things  he 
might  have  done  that  would  have  brightened  her  life. 
With  a  fervent  hope  that  his  fear  was  unfounded  and 
that  there  still  remained  time  in  which  he  could  make 
reparation,  he  forced  his  finger  under  the  flap  and  burst 
the  envelope  open. 

His  apprehension  was  correct.  Joe  wrote  his  cus 
tomary  page  or  so  of  rambling  inconsequences :  Carey 
must  be  prepared  for  a  terrible  shock, — he  had  not  wired, 
and  so  on  and  so  on, — he  wished  he  might  tell  Carey  what 
he  must,  instead  of  writing  it.  Every  one  knew  what  a 
bad  hand  he  was  at  writing 

Carey  impatiently  turned  the  page  and  his  eye  leaped 
half  way  down  it  until  he  caught  the  word  "mother." 
From  there  on  he  read  and  re-read  the  words,  and  when 
he  had  finished  the  letter  he  sat  with  the  sheets  held  limply 
in  his  hand,  gazing  with  a  cold,  blank  stare  vacantly 
before  him. 

It  was  cancer.  For  some  months,  his  mother  had  com 
plained  of  internal  pains,  and  Joe  had  urged  her  to  see 
a  doctor.  Mrs.  Williams  would  not  consent ;  she  scoffed 
at  the  idea,  refusing  to  consider  the  matter.  But  one  of 
her  friends  finally  persuaded  her,  and  the  terrible  fact 
was  at  once  discovered.  Mrs.  Williams  was  not  told  the 
result  of  the  diagnosis.  It  was  too  late  to  operate;  it 
was  only  a  question  of  time ;  it  might  be  weeks ;  she  might 
live  for  a  couple  of  years.  The  doctors  did  not  know,  but 
both  physicians  who  had  made  the  examination  thought 
that  her  son  should  come  home  at  once. 

As  he  sat  there,  unseeing,  there  occurred  to  Carey 
instance  after  instance  of  his  mother's  gentleness  and 
goodness,  countless  evidences  of  her  love  for  himself,  her 
patience  and  forbearance.  He  could  match  every  one  of 


THE  AMATEUR  233 


these  with  a  thoughtless,  unkind  act  of  his  own.  Hers 
had  not  been  a  happy  life.  Simple  and  shy,  of  limited 
mentality,  she  had  married  a  man  to  whom  she  was  ut 
terly  unsuited.  The  responsibility  lay,  probably,  with 
her  husband.  She  would  have  married  any  man  who  had 
asked  her.  Carey's  father  had  remedied  his  mistake  in 
a  ruthless,  characteristic  manner,  but  his  wife  had  had  to 
endure  the  results  of  hers  to  the  bitter  end.  She  had 
lived  on,  harassed  by  business  cares,  deserted  by  both  hus 
band  and  son,  beset  by  imaginary  worries,  alone, — with 
but  one  or  two  old  women  like  herself  to  count  upon  as 
friends, — finally  to  be  afflicted  by  a  lingering  and  offen 
sive  disease  that  must  inevitably  prove  fatal! 

As  he  sat  holding  his  head  in  his  hands,  Carey,  with  all 
the  strength  he  possessed,  gripped  his  throbbing  temples 
as  if  to  strangle  the  pain  of  his  regret.  He  felt  he  could 
not  wait  to  see  his  mother  again.  The  memory  of  all 
his  petty  grievances  against  her,  the  oft-repeated  accusa 
tion  that  she  had  lost  her  capacity  to  sympathise  with 
him,  her  doubts  and  mistrust  of  him,  the  instances  of  her 
petulant  nagging, — all  were  swept  away  in  the  surge  of 
blinding  pity  and  love  that  filled  his  heart.  He  gave  no 
consideration  now  to  his  work,  or  his  career,  or  to  his 
one  and  twenty  self-indulgences.  The  thought  of  Myra, 
even  of  unoffending  Cecilia,  sickened  him.  The  only 
pang  was  at  the  thought  of  parting  from  Springer, — • 
Springer,  with  whom  he  was  to  have  spent  the  summer, — 
Springer,  with  whom  he  was  to  have  shared  a  studio  next 
year! 

As  if  some  telepathic  manner  of  communication  ex 
isted  between  them  and  Springer  had  unconsciously  be 
come  aware  of  Carey's  distress,  the  telephone — which 
Carey  had  muffled  so  that  he  would  be  able  to  sleep  that 
morning — at  this  moment  began  to  click  feebly.  Carey 


234  THE  AMATEUR 


would  have  been  surprised  if  any  other  voice  had  replied 
to  his  "Hello!" 

"Are  you  awake  yet?" 

"Yes.     I  want  to  see  you  right  away." 

"Can't  come  now.  I'm  only  in  my  underclothes.  You 
come  down." 

"No, — I'm  just  out  of  bed.  Hurry  into  something. 
It's  important.  I'm  in  trouble  and  I've  got  to  see  you." 

"All  right." 

It  was  hardly  a  minute  before  Springer,  clad  in  an 
army  shirt  and  painting  trousers,  his  feet  in  wicker  san 
dals,  squatted  tailor-fashion  on  Carey's  bed,  a  cigarette 
between  his  lips,  the  drops  of  water  still  glistening  in  his 
hair  from  the  sousing  to  which  he  subjected  it  every 
morning. 

Carey  told  him  about  his  mother. 

"It's  as  little  as  I  can  do,"  he  concluded.  "I  don't 
know  how  long  I  shall  have  to  be  away.  It  rather  knocks 
our  plans  on  the  head.  I  hoped  that  you  and  I " 

Springer  interrupted  him. 

"I  know — I  know.  We'll  have  to  postpone  that.  I'll 
stick  round  here  till  July,  and  then  I  may  run  down  to 
Wilmington  to  see  Jenkins.  Perhaps  you  will  be  back 
by  October.  I'll  wait  for  you — Tilley  doesn't  want  to 
move.  Now,  you'd  better  get  out  of  here  at  once.  There's 
always  a  train  for  Chicago  any  time  of  day.  Sling  what 
you  will  want  right  away  into  your  suitcase,  and  I'll  send 
your  trunk  after  you.  How  are  you  off  for  cash?" 

It  was  the  attitude  that  this  calamity  was  a  mutual 
sorrow  and  must  be  mutually  borne  that  Carey  found  so 
generous  and  characteristic  of  Springer.  He  had  just 
experienced  a  feeling  of  being  left  alone  in  the  world, 
and  it  warmed  his  heart  to  realise  the  depth  and  perma 
nence  of  this  friendship. 


THE  AMATEUR  235 


The  same  thought  returned  to  him  again  as  the  train 
began  its  dark  passage  through  the  black  tunnels  by  which 
it  wormed  its  way  out  from  beneath  the  city.  There  was 
Joe,  too — faithful,  clumsy  Joe.  He  could  count  on  these 
two  friends,  and  while  his  mother  was  permitted  to  live, 
he  would  show  her  a  devotion  that  would  make  up  to  some 
extent  for  the  years  she  had  wanted  it  and  found  it 
lacking. 

Home  again.  It  was  very  different  from  his  last  home 
coming.  He  had  returned  six  months  before,  still  a  boy, 
with  a  boy's  whining  grievances  against  the  world,  ex 
travagant  in  his  speech,  arrogant  in  his  opinions.  He  con 
sidered  he  knew  much  more  of  the  world  now ;  things  in 
his  home  town  struck  him  as  being  more  provincial  than 
ever;  his  mental  horizon  had  broadened;  he  had  entered 
into  man's  estate. 

There  was  no  question  that  he  had  changed.  His 
clothes  had  the  smartness  he  had  copied  from  Springer, 
and  he  had  acquired  something  of  Springer's  genial  man 
ner  and  free-limbed  carriage.  There  was  some  subtle 
difference  in  him  as  well.  Joe  remarked  upon  it  when 
he  met  him  at  the  station;  some  quality  in  Carey  by 
which  Joe  had  held  his  affection  in  the  past  seemed  gone. 
It  rather  flattered  Carey  to  think  that  the  change  in  him 
was  so  obvious.  He  hoped  his  old  friends  of  the  Pen  and 
Brush  Club  would  notice  it. 

Thinking  only  of  the  change  in  himself,  Carey  was 
unprepared  for  the  terrible  change  he  found  in  his  mother. 
The  healthy,  brown  warmth  of  her  cheeks  had 
changed  to  the  pallid  greyness  of  a  tallow  candle;  her 
hair  was  the  same,  but  thinner,  and  wisps  of  it 
hung  about  her  ears  where  before  it  had  always  been 
bound  so  snugly;  her  eyes  had  dropped  back  into  their 


236  THE  AMATEUR 


sockets  and  the  cheek  bones  had  become  more  prom 
inent;  her  lips  had  begun  to  pucker  like  the  mouth  of  a 
draw-string  bag.  Carey  buried  his  face  in  the  lap  of 
the  thin  silk  dress  she  wore,  and  tears  marked  both  their 
faces  as  his  mother  smoothed  his  hair  with  gentle,  feeble 
strokes.  Not  for  a  long  time  had  mother  and  son  felt 
so  close  to  one  another. 

In  the  weeks  that  followed,  Carey  carried  out  his  re 
solve  to  make  what  reparation  was  possible  for  his  past 
neglect.  It  was  more  difficult  than  he  imagined,  for  his 
mother  was  querulous  and  exacting.  Her  son  never  knew 
whether  or  not  she  recognised  the  nature  of  her  ailment. 
She  never  admitted  it,  but  always  spoke  of  being  well 
again  soon  and  of  coming  to  visit  him  in  New  York. 
There  was  always  talk  of  a  new  serum  the  doctor 
was  going  to  give  her.  She  never  despaired  of  recov 
ery.  The  disease,  however,  affected  her  mind  and  the 
nature  of  her  thoughts.  Carey  was  continually  called 
upon  to  agree  with  her  in  the  most  flagrantly  inaccurate 
assertions.  Strange  hallucinations  regarding  his  father 
possessed  her.  One  of  these  was  that  her  husband  had 
been  a  drunkard.  She  worked  herself  into  an  alarming 
state  of  agitation  on  the  day  she  confided  this  to  Carey, 
assuring  him  that,  up  to  the  present  moment,  she  had  kept 
the  fact  "locked  in  the  fastness  of  her  heart  for  twenty 
years/'  Her  son  had  been  given  every  chance  to  retain 
and  cultivate  his  natural  love  for  his  father.  She  had 
never  so  much  as  hinted  to  him  of  his  father's  weakness. 
She  had  felt  it  was  only  fair  to  her  boy  and  to  the  man 
whose  son  he  was,  that  he  should  respect  and  look  up 
to  him.  Carey  must  not  judge  his  father  by  his  unwar 
ranted  treatment  of  herself.  She  had  her  short-comings 
and,  presumably,  she  had  not  done  all  she  might  have 
done  to  make  him  happy.  What  woman  was  perfect? 


THE  AMATEUR  237 


But  she  had  been  faithful  to  him  and  borne  him  a  son, — a 
fine  son, — of  whom  he  would  have  been  justly  proud. 
She  did  not  deserve  to  be  thrust  aside  like  a  worn-out 
glove,  to  be  cast  into  the  discard  as  worthless,  a  faded, 
used  up  ... 

Tears  would  interrupt  this  broken  recital,  which  was 
resumed  again  as  soon  as  Carey  had  sufficiently  com 
forted  her.  For  many  years  afterwards  he  recalled  those 
summer  afternoons.  No  matter  what  the  weather,  there 
was  always  a  tiny  fire  that  smouldered  and  flickered  in  the 
grate.  His  mother  derived  a  certain  comfort  from  the 
companionable  little  flame,  and  Carey  arranged  for  this 
fire  to  be  laid  every  morning  and  throughout  the  day 
kept  it  gently  replenished.  About  ten  o'clock — sometimes 
an  hour  later — his  mother  would  come  down  the  stairs, 
one  careful  step  at  a  time,  the  arm  of  faithful  old  Mrs. 
Harris,  who  was  companion,  nurse  and  housekeeper  all 
in  one,  firmly  about  her.  Carey  usually  met  them  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  to  catch  her  arm  and  hand  when  the 
balustrade's  support  ended. 

Invariably  he  asked  as  he  kissed  her : 

"What  kind  of  a  night,  mother?" 

Invariably  she  shook  her  head  slowly,  shutting  her  eyes 
at  its  memory. 

"Pain — pain.     I  don't  sleep  very  well,  my  son." 

Then,  through  the  long  hours  of  what  remained  of  the 
morning,  and  through  the  longer  hours  of  the  afternoon, 
she  would  sit  in  her  black  wicker  armchair  by  the  little 
grate  fire,  a  knitted,  beribboned  shawl  about  her  shoul 
ders,  reciting  to  Carey,  who  usually  sat  on  a  pillow,  cross- 
legged  at  her  feet,  the  sad  and  happy  reminiscences  of 
her  life.  Outside,  the  hot,  western  sunshine  streamed 
down  unbroken  on  flat,  hard  sidewalks ;  behind  them,  the 
lace  curtains  at  the  front  windows  gently  bellied  out  into 


238  THE  AMATEUR 


the  room  with  every  puff  of  wind.  Beside  the  black  coal 
and  the  wavering  flame  in  the  grate,  a  tall  bunch  of  pam 
pas  plumes  stood  on  the  hearthstone  in  a  china  umbrella 
rack,  promoted  to  that  service  years  before ;  on  the  oppo 
site  side  was  an  onyx-topped,  spindle-legged  table  on 
which  reposed  a  Rogers  group  entitled  Taking  the  Oath 
and  Drawing  Rations,  acquired  by  the  family  with 
other  heirlooms  when  Carey's  father's  sister  had  died. 
These  two  things,  and  the  coal  hod  and  fender,  were  all 
that  came  within  the  limited  range  of  his  vision.  Above 
his  head,  the  black  shadow  of  the  broad  mantel  and  its 
dark  crimson  lambrequin  hung  oppressively.  With  a 
cadence  that  now  furiously  hurried,  and  now  irritatingly 
lagged  behind,  the  ticking  of  the  old  brass  clock  that 
stood  with  its  back  against  the  gigantic  mirror  above 
the  mantel,  kept  up  a  constant,  thin,  minor  accompani 
ment  to  the  complaining  notes  of  his  mother's  voice. 

Carey's  mind  wandered.  It  was  unutterably  sad  to  sit 
beside  his  dying  mother  and  listen  to  the  reminiscences  of 
her  gay  youth,  alternated  with  bitter  criticism  of  his 
father.  It  was  easier  to  give  her  his  apparent  attention 
and  let  his  thoughts  carry  him  back  to  New  York  and 
Springer,  his  cosy  studio  waiting  for  him,  and  the  work 
he  had  just  begun.  Staring  into  the  fire-light,  he  used  to 
picture  Broadway  by  day,  and  again  by  night.  He  saw 
the  hurrying  streams  of  people  that  passed  each  other  on 
either  side  of  the  street,  the  crawling  lines  of  trolley  cars, 
the  unending  succession  of  teams  and  automobiles,  all 
hemmed  in  between  the  unbroken  ranks  of  shops  and 
office  buildings  and  theatres,  theatres,  office  buildings  and 
shops, — a  colossal  thoroughfare,  the  great,  throbbing 
artery  of  the  city.  Then,  with  the  dusk,  came  the  fire 
signs,  pricking  themselves  out  of  the  half  light,  growing 
more  gorgeous  and  more  brilliant  with  the  vanishing 


THE  AMATEUR  239 


lay.  Sputtering  white  arc  lights,  the  glowing  eyes  of 
notor  cars,  the  glare  of  electrics  from  the  brilliant  in- 
eriors  of  shops  and  restaurants,  the  reflections  of  pow- 
rful  lamps  upon  huge  advertisements  lifted  high  upon 
;ome  fagade  or  building  top,  pendent  balls  of  fire,  orange 
md  violet, — lights,  lights,  a  magnificent  prodigality  of 
hem — flashing,  winking,  glowing, — making  it  a  fairy- 
and  of  glory.  And  he  could  hear  the  great  noise  of  the 
street,  that  rose,  a  harsh,  pulsing  droning  by  day,  chang- 
ng  to  a  sustained,  high  vibration  by  night. 

He  saw  himself  with  Springer  in  the  lounge-lined  cafe 
it  Martin's,  drinking  something  from  tall  glasses,  lean- 
ng  elbows  on  the  marble-topped  tables,  smoking  innum- 
rable  cigarettes,  while  the  pile  of  saucers  that  indicated 
he  number  and  amount  of  their  orders  grew  higher 
md  higher.  Then  they  were  dining  at  the  Hofbrau, 
and  he  could  hear  again  the  jangle  of  the  bell  that  an 
nounced  the  opening  of  a  fresh  keg  of  beer.  There  was 
Louis,  the  red-headed  waiter  at  Moquin's,  who  always 
found  them  Camembert  cheese  of  the  proper  ripeness,  and 
set  it  before  them  with  a  flourish,  never  omitting  the  ex- 
:lamation : 

"Voild,  Messieurs!  Le  frontage  qui  marche  tout  seul!" 
There  was  Luchow's  and  the  Chat  Noir  and  Browne's 
'hop  House,  and  the  Cafe  des  Ambassadeurs,  and  the 
gay  Yacht  Room  at  the  Arena,  and  the  White  Horse 
Tavern,  and  the  Cafe  Boulevard,  and  Jack's, — always 
Jack's,  befittingly  last.  Glorious  memories  they  seemed 
to  him,  even  those  he  had  shared  with  Jerry  Hart.  He 
found  it  hard  now  to  condemn  his  former  companion. 
If  he  stopped  to  consider  the  matter,  Jerry  was  a  con 
temptible  rascal,  of  course — but  he  and  Carey  had  had 
some  splendid  times  together  at  Van  Cortland  Park,  at 


240  THE  AMATEUR 


Coney  Island,  roaming  the  city  with  only  a  few  dimes 
and  quarters  jingling  in  their  pockets! 

Out  of  the  haze  of  these  happy  recollections,  the  fea 
tures  of  one  exquisite  face  persistently  haunted  him. 
Myra,  with  the  tip  of  her  porcelain  ear  showing  just 
below  the  brown  waves  of  her  soft  hair,  the  swift  chang 
ing  colour  beneath  her  transparent  skin,  her  limpid,  glis 
tening  eyes,  elongated,  narrowing  toward  her  temples.  It 
was  that  characteristic  of  her  eyes  which  pursued  him, 
the  one  flaw  in  otherwise  perfect  beauty,  the  one  indica 
tion  that  betrayed  the  coarseness  of  her  soul.  Had  he 
been  less  simple  and  unsophisticated,  he  might  have  found 
it  repulsive,  a  distressing  blemish.  As  it  was,  it  drew 
his  attention  as  an  imperfection  that  emphasised  her  love 
liness.  It  fascinated  him  as  might  the  thumb  mark  of 
a  thief  upon  a  clear  bit  of  window  glass. 

After  his  mother  had  gone  to  bed,  Carey  used  to  spend 
most  of  his  evenings  with  Joe.  They  acquired  the  habit 
of  playing  cribbage  together,  and  sat  up  often  until  mid 
night.  Joe  was  still  the  same  even-tempered,  quiet,  hum 
ble  friend,  loving  in  the  same  dog-like  fashion.  It  was 
irritating  at  times,  but,  in  his  heart,  Carey  genuinely  ap 
preciated  his  devotion.  He  returned  Joe's  affection  in 
his  own  way;  Joe  would  always  be  the  rock  foundation 
upon  which  he  built  his  life.  It  was  inevitable  they  should 
drift  apart,  however,  with  the  many  and  varied  interests 
that  had  come  into  Carey's  life.  The  subtle  change  that 
had  distressed  Joe  was  that  he  was  no  longer  necessary 
to  Carey.  When  they  had  been  together  in  New  York, 
and  even  during  the  last  visit  home  at  Christmas,  the 
boy  had  confided  unreservedly  in  his  older  friend.  He 
had  told  him  about  the  Fillmore  household  and  his  work, 
about  Jerry  Hart  and  Anna,  had  even  analysed  and  dis- 


THE  AMATEUR  241 


cussed  his  impulses  and  most  intimate  feelings  with  him. 
Now,  Joe  was  conscious  of  a  certain  reserve  and  self- 
reliance  that  Carey  had  not  displayed  before.  The  dif 
ference  in  their  relationship  was  apparent  also  to  Carey, 
but  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  tell  Joe  about  Springer 
or  the  episode  of  Cecilia,  always  to  be  an  unpleasant 
recollection.  It  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  that  he  should 
mention  Myra.  Joe  would  resent  Springer's  influence 
and,  being  incapable  of  understanding  such  a  character, 
would  disparage  him  in  the  clumsy  way  Carey  knew  so 
well.  With  regard  to  Cecilia,  he  would  be  certain  to 
exonerate  Carey  and  characterise  the  girl  as  an  adven 
turess.  Myra  would  appear  to  him  as  nothing  more  or 
less  than  a  woman  of  the  streets. 

Carey  told  Joe,  however,  about  the  success  he  had 
made  with  his  pretty-girl  heads;  and,  as  days  stretched 
into  weeks  and  weeks  into  months,  and  his  mother's  con 
dition  did  not  vary,  he  sent  for  some  bundles  of  straw- 
board  and  set  to  work  once  more.  Joe  offered  him  his 
studio,  and  Carey  spent  an  hour  or  so  there  every  after 
noon. 

One  of  the  orders  he  received  in  his  forwarded  mail, 
was  from  a  calendar  publishing  company,  which  made 
him  two  offers,  one  a  cash  payment  of  five  thousand 
dollars  for  twelve  heads,  the  other  to  compensate 
him  on  a  royalty  basis.  Joe  urged  him  to  agree  to 
the  latter  only  and  insisted  that  Carey  demand  a  con 
tract.  Other  commissions  he  received  that  pleased  him 
were  an  order  for  six  heads  from  Society,  a  high-grade 
fashion  periodical, — one  from  The  Feminine  World  for 
the  cover  of  their  Christmas  issue, — and  a  commission 
for  a  single  head  from  Hawkins  and  Cooper,  a  big  ad 
vertising  agency,  for  which  they  offered  him  five  hundred 
dollars.  Two  heads,  he  had  sent,  unsolicited,  to  Mirth, 


242  THE  AMATEUR 


were  both  accepted  at  three  hundred  dollars  apiece.  It 
was  a  delightful  thought,  that  his  work  would  appear 
simultaneously  on  various  periodicals,  and  so  many  covers 
by  the  same  man  were  bound  to  attract  attention.  New 
York  would  recognise  him, — not  the  editors,  nor  even 
the  magazine  readers, — but  the  city  itself !  One  particu 
lar  order  indicating  that  this  possibility  was  not  far  dis 
tant,  came  from  the  office  of  Charles  Claridge,  the  theat 
rical  manager,  who  wanted  a  life-size  likeness  of  Ethel 
Harricot,  one  of  his  leading  stars,  noted  for  her  glorious 
crown  of  red  hair,  who  was  to  go  en  tour  in  repertoire. 
For  this  poster  he  asked  and  received  five  hundred  dollars. 

As  the  demand  for  his  work  increased  in  New  York, 
it  was  somewhat  irritating  to  realise  that  very  few  in  his 
home  city  knew  anything  about  it.  His  acquaintances 
met  him  on  the  street  and  inquired  with  a  pleasant  interest 
how  he  was  getting  along.  They  all  assumed  that  he 
had  failed  and  had  come  home  again  to  make  the  best 
living  he  could  at  his  old  work.  They  clapped  him  on  the 
back  and  said : 

"Well,  New  York's  a  hard  place,  I  hear;  I'm  glad 
you're  back  again.  Hope  you  stay."  Others  who  knew 
him  more  intimately  and  were  aware  of  his  mother's 
condition  felt  called  upon  to  add,  after  they  had  enquired 
about  her:  "Guess  you're  glad  to  be  home.  Home's 
good  enough  for  me!  I  thought  to  myself,  when  you 
went  to  New  York,  'that  boy  won't  stand  it  long  among 
those  cold-blooded  folk.'  Our  boys  always  come  home." 

Carey  listened  patiently  and  smiled,  but  he  hated  them 
in  his  heart.  After  the  first  cynical  smile  which  one  of 
them  had  assumed  when  Carey  explained  that  he  was 
only  home  for  a  visit  and  would  return  to  New  York 
shortly,  he  kept  the  information  to  himself  and  left  them 
to  their  own  inferences.  It  was  hard  to  be  patient.  He 


THE  AMATEUR  243 


passionately  longed  to  be  back  in  the  city  where  his  ability 
was  recognised  and  he  commanded  respect  and  attention. 
He  suspected  that  even  Joe  did  not  appreciate  what  a 
success  he  had  already  made. 

He  tried  to  satisfy  himself  with  long  letters  to 
Springer.  They  were  full  of  questions  which  Springer 
never  answered,  when  he  actually  accomplished  the  feat 
of  a  reply.  Springer  could  not  write  letters,  or,  rather, 
the  effort  it  cost  him  was  so  irksome  that  he  would  not. 
A  month  passed  after  Carey  reached  home  before  he 
received  any  word  from  him  and  then  it  only  came  in  re 
sponse  to  an  insistent  telegram.  His  communications 
were  confined  to  comments  on  the  weather,  which  was 
always  hot;  to  the  fact  that  he  was  well,  and  he  hoped 
Carey  was  likewise,  and  that  his  mother  was  "mending" ; 
everybody  was  out  of  town,  and  he  hoped  Carey  would 
soon  be  back.  Such,  in  varying  forms,  constituted  his 
communications.  Only  once  did  he  mention  Myra,  and 
that  in  the  first  that  Carey  received.  He  wrote :  "Myra 
sends  love!"  The  message  thrilled  Carey;  he  often 
thought  about  it. 

July  passed,  hot  and  dusty;  August  followed,  a  little 
hotter,  a  little  more  dusty.  September  dragged  out  its 
existence,  with  a  promise  of  rain  from  day  to  day,  that 
was  never  fulfilled.  Even  the  townspeople  complained  of 
the  weather;  but  to  Carey  it  seemed  suffocating,  insup 
portable.  A  west  wind,  that  invariably  sprang  up  in  the 
afternoon,  blew  the  smoke  from  the  tall  factory  chim 
neys  across  the  river  down  through  the  streets,  and  into 
the  open  windows  of  the  houses.  It  was  a  thick,  dirty 
smoke,  reeking  with  the  odour  of  chemicals,  brassy  and 
poisonous.  Carey  grew  to  dread  the  nauseating  stench  of 


244  THE  AMATEUR 


it;  he  wondered  how  he  ever  had  been  able  to  be  happy 
in  his  home  city. 

He  found  disillusion  also  at  the  Pen  and  Brush  Club, 
once  his  delight.  The  members  now  seemed  utterly  com 
placent,  satisfied  with  their  own  petty  achievements,  prais 
ing  and  criticising  each  other's  work,  fostering  the  idea 
that  theirs  was  a  rarefied  circle,  undefiled  by  commercial 
ism,  where  Art  was  pursued  for  Art's  sake  alone.  In 
their  hearts,  Carey  told  himself,  it  was  self-distrust  and 
fear  that  actuated  them;  not  one  of  them  could  sell  his 
picture  or  poem,  or  whatever  it  was  he  produced.  Those 
who  had  succeeded  in  earning  a  living  by  their  work  had 
gone  to  New  York. 

Carey  would  give  vent  to  his  contempt  and  indigna 
tion  in  long  talks  with  Joe  after  their  cribbage  was  over. 
Joe  would  listen  placidly,  slowly  nodding  his  head  in  tacit 
agreement  with  Carey's  arraignment  of  his  former  club- 
mates.  But  one  of  Joe's  mild  comments  made  Carey 
wonder,  when  he  recalled  it  later,  whether  Joe  was  in 
as  perfect  accord  with  him  on  this  and  other  subjects  as 
he  appeared. 

"I  wonder  if  your  meteoric  success  hasn't  turned  your 
head  a  bit,  boy,"  Joe  had  said.  "If  there  didn't  happen 
to  be  a  demand  for  your  work,  would  you  feel  about  the 
fellows  at  the  Club  the  same  way?  Poetry  is  a  drug  on 
the  market ;  some  of  what  the  boys  have  written,  perhaps 
you  will  admit,  is  better  Art  and  more  worth  while  than 
a  girl's  head  you  are  able  to  dash  off  in  an  hour  and  sell 
for  five  hundred  dollars." 

Carey  had  been  too  interested  in  his  own  point  of  view 
to  reply  to  this  particular  argument.  Afterwards,  it 
recurred  to  him,  and  the  more  he  thought  about  it  the 
more  he  was  nettled.  It  was  all  very  well  for  Joe  to 
talk ;  he  was  not  better  off  than  the  rest  of  'em ;  he  would 


THE  AMATEUR  245 


be  obliged  to  get  behind  a  counter  and  sell  haberdashery 
or  silk-by-the-yard  if  it  weren't  for  the  snug  fifty  dollars 
a  month  his  father's  insurance  brought  him!  Nobody 
had  given  him  a  helping  hand.  He  had  won  his  laurels 
by  his  own  brain.  He  had  used  only  five  hundred  dollars 
of  his  inheritance !  The  thought  of  the  twenty-two  thou 
sand  that  would  be  his  in  a  few  months,  to  do  with  as  he 
pleased,  drove  the  irritation  at  Joe's  dubious  remarks  out 
of  his  head. 

October  brought  the  delayed  rain,  and  as  if  Nature 
were  inclined  to  make  up  for  her  neglect,  the  water 
streamed  down  out  of  the  sky;  it  rolled  off  the  roofs, 
choking  the  drain  pipes ;  the  gutters  spouted.  The  clouds 
would  break  tantalisingly,  revealing  a  patch  of  blue,  then 
form  again  in  a  thick,  leaden  mass  to  deluge  the  city 
like  a  saturated  sponge  in  a  giant's  hand. 

With  windows  tightly  closed,  the  fire  blazing  brightly, 
his  mother  would  sit  in  her  black  wicker  armchair,  and 
tell  Carey  for  the  thousandth  time  how  his  father  had 
come  home  night  after  night  to  be  helped  upstairs  by  the 
cabman,  falling  insensate  upon  the  bed,  or  turning  upon 
her  with  coarse,  abusive  language.  Again  and  again  he 
must  listen  to  the  long  account  of  how  she  had  protected 
him  from  ever  learning  his  father's  weakness,  that  natu 
ral  affection  might  not  be  checked.  Outside,  the  rain 
would  beat  steadily  against  the  windows,  maintaining  a 
monotonous  roar  upon  the  tin  roof  over  the  kitchen  porch. 
Inside,  the  air  would  grow  uncomfortably  warm  and 
close;  the  fire  would  crackle  and  snap;  the  brass  clock 
would  tick  its  uneven  accompaniment  to  the  complaining 
voice  that  went  on  and  on,  querulously,  unceasingly. 

"I  will  stick  it  out!"  Carey  told  himself  fiercely.  "It 
can't  be  much  longer;  I'll  always  be  glad  of  it  the  rest  of 
my  life." 


246  THE  AMATEUR 


He  had  a  real  letter  from  Springer  the  following  week, 
incoherent  in  places,  but  full  of  the  gossip  and  informa 
tion  for  which  Carey's  heart  ached.  Springer  wanted 
to  know  "when  the  hell  he  was  coming  back" ;  Tilley  was 
going  to  get  married, — a  fat  heiress, — and  Mark  Harri 
son  wanted  him  to  take  a  studio  apartment  on  East  Tenth 
Street.  He'd  much  prefer  waiting  for  Carey,  if  he  knew 
what  his  plans  were.  He  understood  the  situation  and 
how  hard  it  was  for  Carey  to  answer  him;  but,  if  it 
looked  as  if  he  wouldn't  be  back  for  some  time  to  come, 
Springer  guessed  he'd  have  to  take  up  Harrison's  propo 
sition.  He  knew  Carey  would  see  the  point.  They 
missed  him  very  much, — everybody  was  talking  about 
his  work  and  asking  when  he  was  going  to  return.  Myra 
was  threatening  to  quit  Cunningham  Bates  and  go  back 
to  the  stage.  He  hadn't  seen  her  for  a  long  time.  There 
was  a  new  girl  he  was  crazy  about — she  was  studying 
singing — going  into  opera.  She  had  a  wonderful  voice 
and  could  trill  like  a  nightingale.  Her  name  was  Violet 
Burns, — had  a  sister,  and  the  two  lived  at  the  Hotel 
Grenoble.  Carey  would  guess  a  long  time  before  he  could 
think  of  whom  Springer  had  met  up  there  at  tea  one 
afternoon.  Cecilia  Shaughnessy!  She  had  been  quite 
decent  and  had  asked  about  Carey,  whose  work,  it  ap 
peared,  had  given  her  a  lot  of  publicity.  On  account  of 
it  she  had  done  very  well  as  a  professional  accompanist. 
People  spoke  of  her  as  the  girl  with  the  Carey  Williams 
hair.  Springer  thought  she  was  better  looking  than  she 
used  to  be.  It  was  stupid  trotting  round  town  alone.  He 
had  gone  on  a  swell  party  on  Columbus  Day.  A  young 
actor  named  Gerald  Crofts,  who  had  a  bunch  of  kale,  had 
taken  a  crowd  of  his  friends  in  his  big  motor  boat  down 
to  the  Larchmont  Yacht  Club.  The  club  was  out  of 
commission,  but  Crofts  had  arranged  for  a  swell  meal. 


THE  AMATEUR  247 


There  had  been  eighteen  of  them,  and  they  had  danced 
till  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  everybody  "lit  to  the 
eyes."  The  shows  were  all  rotten;  he  and  Harrison  had 
been  going  to  Hammer  stein's.  Did  Carey  want  to  join 
the  Salmagundi  Club?  He  had  just  become  a  member 
and  was  having  a  lot  of  fun  with  the  fellows  who  be 
longed.  They  had  had  a  masquerade  and  Springer  had 
never  seen  such  stunning  costumes. 

Carey  read  the  letter  once  a  day,  and  sometimes 
oftener.  In  his  longing  to  share  with  some  one  the  ex 
quisite  joy  and  delight  it  gave  him,  he  read  it  aloud  to 
Joe  Downer  in  a  moment  of  exuberant  spirits.  Joe  was 
at  work  lettering  some  window  cards  for  a  kodak  store. 
He  made  no  comment  upon  Carey's  enthusiasm,  and 
Carey,  suspecting  disapproval  in  his  silence,  turned 
angrily  upon  him. 

"God !  Joe, — you  make  me  mad !  Can't  you  be  polite, 
— can't  you  say  something  decent  instead  of  sitting  there 
like  an  oyster  ?  I  read  this  letter  to  you  because  it  meant 
a  lot  to  me ;  I  supposed  you'd  be  interested !" 

Joe  looked  at  him,  surprised  at  the  outburst.  He  was 
too  honest  to  lie. 

"I  didn't  say  anything,  did  I,  Carey  ?  I  don't  approve 
of  such  people,  and  that  kind  of  high  life  doesn't  appeal 
to  me.  I  can't  think  your  friend  Springer  is  the  sort  of  a 
person  I  like  to  see  you  so  intimate  with.  Feeling  these 
things,  I  thought  it  better  to  keep  still  than  to  say  any 
thing  at  all,  and  now  you  jump  me  because " 

Carey  seized  his  hat  and  umbrella,  and  cut  Joe's  words 
off  by  slamming  the  studio  door  behind  him.  He  strode 
out  into  the  wet  street,  his  nerves  breaking  his  control,  a 
raging  desire  burning  in  his  heart  to  run  down  Front 
Street  to  the  great  glass-roofed  terminal  and  jump  aboard 
the  next  train  for  New  York. 


248  THE  AMATEUR 


"New  York— ^New  York— New  York." 

The  words  sang  in  his  ears,  in  his  brain,  and  in  his 
heart.  He  hated  the  rambling  frame  residences,  the  lop 
sided,  brick  houses,  the  yellow-tinted  office  buildings,  the 
new  court  house,  proudly  pointed  out,  the  over-head  trol 
ley  wires,  the  cobble  stones  in  the  street,  everything  about 
his  native  city  that  was  different  from  New  York.  And 
there  wasn't  a  single  thing  about  it  that  faintly  resembled 
New  York !  He  hated  every  stick  and  nail  and  stone  that 
made  it.  He  hated  the  fat,  smug  people,  with  their  lag 
ging  walk;  their  habit  of  chatting  in  groups  in  the  post- 
office,  in  the  banks,  on  the  corners ;  their  rotten,  malicious 
gossip.  He  hated  his  patronising,  self-satisfied,  pompous 
friends, — every  one  of  them — yes — Joe  included.  He 
hated  Joe  Downer. 

"My  God !    Why  doesn't  she  die !" 

He  strode  along  a  few  steps,  until  the  meaning  of  the 
words  he  had  spoken  aloud  penetrated  his  excited  brain. 
Then  he  stopped  and  stood  still  upon  the  curbing  of  the 
sidewalk,  gazing  down  at  the  tiny  torrent  that  gurgled  in 
the  gutter  at  his  feet,  while  the  rain  beat  down,  steadily, 
vertically,  persistently  upon  the  roof  of  his  umbrella. 

The  fire  of  revolt  that  had  been  smouldering  in  his 
heart  for  weeks  had  finally  burst  into  flame.  There  was 
no  longer  any  reason  to  continue  his  self-delusion.  The 
words  that  had  sprung  involuntarily  to  his  lips  had  be 
trayed  the  secret  he  had  been  trying  to  hide.  Face  to 
face  with  what  seemed  to  him  his  rotten  selfish  soul,  he 
had  honestly  to  admit  that  he  had  been  silently  wishing 
this  thing  day  by  day  for  many  weeks.  Deliverance! 
That  was  what  he  had  been  praying  for;  the  smashing  of 
the  chains  that  bound  him  fast  to  his  enforced  duty,  gall 
ing  and  chafing  his  spirit.  Night  and  day  he  dreamed  of 
New  York, — its  freedom,  its  pleasures,  its  wild  exhilara- 


THE  AMATEUR  249 


tion,  its  furious  pace.  He  recognised  in  himself  the  per 
sonification  of  buoyant  youth;  New  York  was  made  for 
such  as  he.  It  was  no  place  for  the  old,  the  weaklings, 
the  failures. 

But  it  was  not  in  him  to  desert  his  mother.  It  never 
occurred  to  him  to  do  that.  The  wish  that  had  been 
growing  in  his  heart,  which  the  spoken  words  revealed, 
seemed  to  him  unforgivable,  a  wish  of  hell,  that  only  a 
debauched  and  shrivelled  soul  could  possibly  conceive. 

Slowly  he  walked  home.  He  thought  he  had  been  mak 
ing  reparation  to  his  mother  for  his  former  neglect  and 
thoughtlessness;  he  must  now  make  reparation  for  the 
atrocious  desire  that  he  knew  he  should  never  be  able  to 
stifle. 

It  was  horrible, — the  thought  that,  while  he  bent  over 
to  kiss  her,  or  fetched  her  shawl,  or  put  his  arm  about 
her  to  support  her  unsteady  steps,  or  tucked  the  Afghan 
quilt  about  her  knees,  deep  in  his  heart  was  a  passionate 
desire  for  that  freedom  which  only  her  death  could  give. 

Carey  redoubled  his  efforts  to  be  attentive  to  her,  read 
ing  aloud  to  her,  bringing  her  meals  to  her  bedside,  in 
venting  ways  of  amusing  her.  He  even  declined  the 
orders  that  came  ever  more  persistently  from  New  York, 
that  he  might  spend  more  time  with  her.  The  desire  to 
cheer  and  comfort  her  gave  place  to  the  grim  satisfaction 
of  self -punishment.  There  ceased  to  be  any  pleasure  in 
his  devotion;  he  drove  himself  through  the  days,  hour 
by  hour. 


CHAPTER  VI 


MRS.  WILLIAMS  died  on  the  nineteenth  of  Novem 
ber.  She  had  been  for  some  time  under  the  in 
fluence  of  morphine,  and  steadily  increased  doses  brought 
on  frequent  states  of  coma,  during  one  of  which  she 
passed  quietly  away. 

Carey  was  deeply  affected.  The  intense  love  for  his 
mother  that  he  had  experienced  in  The  Rembrandt  Stu 
dios  when  Joe's  letter  apprised  him  of  her  condition  came 
surging  back,  bringing  memories  of  her  tenderness  and 
unfailing  devotion.  There  was  a  comforting  and  wholly 
satisfying  thought  that,  in  the  six  months  she  had  been 
permitted  to  live,  he  had  somewhat  repaid  her.  There 
was  not  a  single  moment  when  he  had  showed  her  any 
thing  but  kindness  and  gentle  consideration.  He  had  not 
weakened  in  his  determination;  it  was  a  gratification  to 
remember  how  sorely  he  had  been  tempted.  He  felt 
himself  a  better,  stronger  man.  Mixed  with  these  mo 
tions  was  the  overwhelming  sense  of  relief,  the  joy  of 
freedom,  the  delight,  he  already  commenced  to  anticipate, 
of  returning  to  New  York. 

It  was  nearly  three  weeks  after  the  funeral  before  he 
was  able  to  get  away.  There  was  his  mother's  meagre 
property  to  settle,  her  debts  to  pay,  her  affairs  to  arrange. 
Carey  put  these  matters  into  Joe's  hands,  but  he  was 
obliged  to  remain  and  help,  for  they  found  things  in  a 

250 


THE  AMATEUR  251 


ridiculously  tangled  condition,  almost  impossible  to 
straighten  out.  He  insisted  that  Joe  should  sell  off  the 
real  estate,  even  at  a  loss,  pay  the  mortgages,  and  deposit 
what  little  remained  in  a  local  bank.  Carey  was  deter 
mined  to  wash  his  hands  forever  of  his  native  city.  The 
estate,  when  entirely  cleaned  up,  should  net  him  some 
thing  between  seven  and  eight  thousand  dollars.  Joe  was 
to  receive  an  administrator's  fee  for  attending  to  the 
matter. 

It  was  a  cold,  crisp  day  toward  the  middle  of  Decem 
ber,  when,  with  a  heavily-burdened  redcap  at  his  heels, 
he  made  his  way  up  a  temporary  platform  in  the  dis 
mantled  Grand  Central  Station,  and  saw  the  grinning 
countenances  of  Springer  and  Mark  Harrison  among  the 
eager  faces  of  the  waiting  crowd.  Carey  could  only 
wring  their  hands,  looking  from  one  to  the  other.  He 
had  so  often  thought  about  his  coming  back  to  New  York 
that,  now  that  the  moment  had  arrived,  he  was  too  much 
overwhelmed  at  the  idea  that  he  was  actually  in  the  city 
again  to  think  consecutively  or  to  act  rationally.  They 
all  began  to  talk  at  once,  Carey  interrupting  them  every 
moment  to  exclaim : 

"Isn't  it  wonderful — 'wonderful !  I  can't  believe  it  yet ! 
It's  too  good  to  be  true !  My  God,  boys,  you  don't  know 
what  I've  been  through !" 

Harrison  insisted  upon  their  going  across  the  street  to 
the  new  Belmont  Hotel  bar  to  get  a  drink;  but,  before 
they  went,  Springer  dragged  him  over  to  the  news  stand 
to  show  him  six  magazines,  side  by  side  in  the  first  row 
on  the  counter;  each  of  their  cover  designs  was  his  work. 
It  was  staggering.  There  in  concrete  form  it  was  almost 
ridiculous.  Carey's  head  swam  in  a  bewildering  whirl 
pool  of  delightful  emotion.  His  friends  were  here  on 
either  side;  before  him  lay  the  evidence  of  his  success; 


252  THE  AMATEUR 


every  one  was  wanting  his  work ;  every  one  was  praising 
it;  New  York  eagerly  waited  to  receive  him.  He  stood 
on  the  threshold  of  his  kingdom. 

Rebounding  from  the  suppression  and  stifling 
monotony  of  his  six  months  at  home,  Carey  was  swept 
off  his  feet  in  the  tumultuous  rush  of  an  elation  greater 
than  he  had  ever  known.  It  was  never  clear  in  his  mind 
what  happened  that  day.  He  was  drunk  with  excitement 
before  one  glass  of  liquor  touched  his  lips;  he  was  unde 
niably  intoxicated  by  the  time  he  had  taken  four.  It 
seemed  to  him  afterwards  that  he  had  been  drunk  and  had 
sobered  up  half  a  dozen  times  during  the  day.  The  three 
spent  several  hours  at  a  Turkish  bath  during  the  after 
noon,  and  dined  at  Shanley's  toward  eight  o'clock.  There 
was  one  act  of  a  comic  opera  Carey  remembered  sitting 
through,  and  much  later  an  altercation  between  Springer, 
a  hack  driver  and  a  policeman.  In  the  morning,  he  found 
himself  alone  in  a  small,  second-rate  hotel,  the  name  of 
which  he  forgot  to  ascertain,  when,  with  head  still  swim 
ming,  he  wandered  out  into  the  brilliant,  cold  street.  It 
was  not  the  way  he  had  often  imagined  he  would  spend 
the  day  of  his  return ;  still,  he  had  no  regrets  beyond  the 
physical  discomfort.  The  last  human  tie  that  had  held 
him  to  a  sense  of  responsibility  was  broken. 

He  found  his  quarters  at  The  Rembrandt  Studios  much 
as  he  had  left  them.  He  was  surprised,  however,  that  the 
idea  of  picking  up  his  life  again  among  these  surround 
ings  had  no  attraction  for  him.  It  would  not  be  the 
same  without  Springer  down  the  hall.  He  made  up  his 
mind  to  move,  and,  with  the  decision  he  immediately  be 
came  possessed  with  the  determination  to  acquire  at  once 
what  he  had  coveted  so  long — an  establishment  of  tapes 
tries  and  tall  candlesticks,  such  as  he  had  glimpsed 


THE  AMATEUR  253 


through  a  studio's  open  door  the  day  he  had  called  on 
[ohn  Seymore  Jarvis. 

Carey  was  making  a  great  deal  of  money.  It  came  in 
Faster  than  he  could  keep  track  of  it.  Payments  for  the 
earlier  work  he  had  done  had  been  deferred,  some  of 
:hem  for  six  months  after  delivery.  These  now  began 
to  be  realised.  He  was  pleasantly  surprised,  upon  look- 
ng  up  the  amount  of  his  deposits,  to  find  he  had  a  credit 
over  fifteen  thousand  dollars.  The  bonds  left  by  his 
father  had  recently  been  turned  over  to  him  by  the  execu 
tors,  and  these,  with  what  he  expected  to  realise  from  the 
sale  of  his  mother's  small  realty  holdings,  brought  his 
worldly  possessions  gratifyingly  near  fifty  thousand  dol- 
ars. 

"Not  so  bad  for  a  chap  not  yet  twenty-six,"  reflected 
!arey,  gazing  with  approval  at  himself  in  his  glass. 

The  quest  for  the  new  studio  provided  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure  for  both  Carey  and  Springer.  They  spent 
the  better  part  of  the  following  days  together,  inspecting 
Dossibilities  in  different  sections  of  the  city.  They  dis 
agreed,  even  quarrelled,  because  both  were  so  much  in 
terested  in  the  project.  They  regretted  keenly  that  it 
was  not  possible  to  share  the  same  quarters ;  but  to  desert 
Harrison  would  be  neither  honourable  nor  friendly. 
Springer  claimed  it  was  just  as  well  that  living  together 
was  not  feasible,  as  he  and  Carey  would  differ  about  so 
many  things,  that  their  opinions,  constantly  opposed, 
night  have  impaired  their  friendship.  Besides,  it  would 
be  impossible  for  Springer  to  live  on  the  lavish  scale 
arey  contemplated. 

"I  can't  see  what  you  want  with  a  studio  de  luxe,  with 
mahogany  finish  and  nickel-plated  fittings,"  Springer 
said  in  disgust.  "It  isn't  the  money.  Damn  the  money! 


254  THE  AMATEUR 


If  I  had  half  of  Rockefeller's  millions,  I'd  root  round 
till  I  found  some  dilapidated  old  stable,  rip  the  insides  out 
of  it  and  remodel  it  to  suit  my  taste.  That  would  be 
some  sport !  It  would  have  distinction  to  it !  What  you 
see  in  that  Fifty-ninth  Street  peer's  palace  taxes  my  im 
agination.  I'll  bet  ten  dollars  there  isn't  a  real  artist 
who  makes  his  living  by  his  work  in  that  whole  building. 
You'll  find  'would-bes'  there, — they  fill  three  hundred 
such  dumps  in  New  York.  They  play  at  being  artists. 
They  are  brokers  and  drab  business  men  mostly,  who 
have  temperamental  wives.  I  abominate  such  people!" 

Carey  found  Springer  was  right.  He  consoled  him 
self  with  the  thought  that  he  did  not  have  to  associate 
with  them.  They  were  the  aliens  in  such  quarters  and 
not  he.  The  studio  was  a  duplex  apartment,  consisting 
of  two  bed  rooms,  a  kitchen,  bath,  and  the  studio  itself. 
It  was  the  room  in  which  he  should  work,  that  fascinated 
Carey.  It  was  of  magnificent  proportions,  particularly 
in  height,  and  had  a  gallery  running  around  three  sides 
on  which  the  bed  rooms  above  opened.  The  beamed 
ceiling  was  nearly  twenty-five  feet  from  the  floor.  The 
finish  was  old  English,  and  opposite  the  immense  prismed 
windows  that  flung  light  into  the  furthest  corners,  was 
a  noble  fireplace  of  carved  white  stone,  large  enough  to 
contain  a  pair  of  tall,  brass  fire-dogs,  beautifully  wrought. 
The  windows  allowed  a  view  of  the  Park  only  when  they 
were  open,  but  the  prospect  from  the  bed  rooms  above 
was  unrestricted.  On  the  morning  Carey  and  Springer 
visited  this  studio,  a  heavy,  clinging  snow  had  fallen 
during  the  night,  the  first  of  the  year,  and  every  twig  on 
every  tree  was  encrusted  with  a  white  casing  of  crystal 
sugar.  The  sight  from  the  upper  windows  was  of  en 
trancing  beauty.  The  sun  struck  a  dazzling  multitude  of 
twinkling  sparks  from  every  finger  in  a  forest  of  white- 


THE  AMATEUR  255 


gloved  hands  that  stretched  heavenward.  It  was  this 
sight  that  decided  Carey.  The  establishment  was  much 
larger  than  he  needed,  the  rent  was  exorbitant,  he  was 
obliged  to  keep  a  servant,  and  it  would  cost  him  three  or 
four  thousand  dollars  to  furnish.  But  he  was  deaf  to 
these  arguments  advanced  by  Springer.  He  knew  he 
was  wrong  and  his  friend  was  right ;  he  admitted  it.  That 
did  not  alter  his  decision.  He  caught  Springer  regard 
ing  him  with  a  puzzled,  distrustful  look.  It  angered  him 
for  the  moment  and  hardened  his  determination. 

Once  it  was  irrevocably  decided,  Springer's  good 
humour  returned,  and  an  agreeable  harmony  prevailed 
between  them  with  regard  to  the  furnishing.  In  due 
time  the  paper  was  ripped  off  the  walls,  which  were  re- 
plastered  and  distempered  a  warm,  golden  brown.  Oak 
shelves  were  built  for  the  books  and  music,  and  Carey 
even  rented  a  grand  piano,  for,  although  he  could  not  use 
it  himself,  he  had  derived  a  certain  companionable  satis 
faction  from  the  instrument  he  had  hired  for  Cecilia,  and, 
besides,  the  presence  of  a  grand  piano  gave  the  studio  a 
certain  dignity.  He  bought  a  Turkish  rug,  that  nearly 
covered  the  studio  floor,  and  three  fine  tapestries,  four 
items  which  cost  him  over  two  thousand  dollars.  Tall 
gilt  candlesticks  supporting  cathedral  candles  as  thick 
as  his  arm,  some  heavily  upholstered  chairs,  a  great 
oak  table  with  massive  legs,  hangings  of  grey-green 
monk's  cloth,  some  vivid  Chinese  embroideries  to  drape 
the  balustrade  of  the  gallery,  an  immense  painter's  easel 
and  model  throne,  whose  presence  could  only  be  justified 
by  the  workmanlike  effect  they  produced,  successively 
were  acquired  and  found  their  way  into  the  studio.  Carey 
thought  that  it  would  be  an  amusing  idea  that,  because 
he  was  an  artist,  the  studio  should  be  devoid  of  pictures. 


256  THE  AMATEUR 


Springer  ridiculed  this  as  affectation.  They  compromised 
on  a  few  large,  well-chosen  Japanese  prints. 

"It's  all  too  commonplace,  Carey,"  Springer  said,  sur 
veying  the  room  critically,  when  it  was  nearly  finished. 
"Your  bed  room,  with  its  yellow  walls  and  cerise  hang 
ings  is  infinitely  more  effective.  All  this  is  like  what  the 
brokers  and  the  business  men  downstairs  and  upstairs 
think  an  artist's  studio  should  be.  It's  the  way  they  fit 
up  their  apartments.  You  couldn't  do  any  real  work 
here  if  you  had  to." 

"I  think  you  are  somewhat  late  with  your  criticism," 
said  Carey,  resentfully. 

"Well,  you've  no  business  in  this  kind  of  a  dude's 
studio,  and  I  said  so  from  the  very  first." 

"And  what  do  you  mean  by  real  work?"  pursued 
Carey,  seeking  offence  in  the  other's  words. 

"Oh,  the  devil !"  Springer  exclaimed  in  disgust.  "You 
know  it  takes  you  less  than  an  hour  to  do  one  of  your 
heads.  You've  told  me  so  repeatedly.  If  it  took  you  a 
couple  of  days  and  you  had  to  turn  it  out  by  the  sweat 
of  your  soul,  that  would  be  hard  work." 

"I  guess  I  know  how  hard  I  work,"  grumbled  Carey. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  all  about  that,"  Springer  answered 
with  spirit.  "But  look  here,  Carey,  I've  got  something  on 
my  chest  that  I  might  as  well  get  off  now  as  any  other 
time.  Are  you  always  going  to  keep  on  with  this  pretty- 
head  stuff  ?  Aren't  you  going  to  try  something  else  some 
time?  I'm  not  the  kind  of  a  friend  that  hears  you  criti 
cised  around  and  never  tells  you  about  it  for  fear  of 
hurting  your  feelings.  I'm  only  telling  you  what  the  fel 
lows  I  know  are  saying." 

"What  fellows?"  Carey  demanded. 

"The  artists.  You  know  'em  as  well  as  I  do.  No 
body's  going  to  take  you  seriously  as  a  conscientious 


THE  AMATEUR  257 


workman  as  long  as  you  continue  to  turn  out  combina 
tions  of  this  strawboard  stunt  of  yours." 

"They're  jealous,  that's  the  trouble  with  them,"  Carey 
retorted,  after  an  uncomfortable  silence. 

Springer  smiled. 

"Not  all  of  them.  Some  of  'em  like  you  personally 
and  would  rather  see  you  do  something  worth  while  than 
those  damn  heads.  You've  invented  a  stunt.  You  know 
it  isn't  Art  as  well  as  I  do.  Now  that  you've  returned  to 
New  York,  why  don't  you  attempt  some  real  illustrating? 
I  know  you  too  well  to  believe  you're  satisfied  to  con 
tinue  to  do  this  kind  of  work  all  the  rest  of  your  life. 
Just  because  the  fool  public  likes  'em  doesn't  make  'em 
Art." 

"I  believe  in  Art  for  Life's  sake,  not  in  Art  for  Art's 
sake."  Carey  had  heard  some  one  say  this,  and  he 
thought  it  an  effective  argument  just  now. 

"I  don't  exactly  know  what  you  mean  by  that,"  his 
friend  replied.  "You  think  over  what  I  say;  sometime 
you'll  be  sorry  you  didn't  try  your  hand  at  something 
else." 

Dissatisfied  as  he  might  be  with  Springer's  lack  of  en 
thusiasm  about  his  work  and  his  new  abode,  Carey  him 
self  was  delighted  with  his  studio.  He  had  realised  the 
dream  that  had  been  his  since  he  arrived  in  New  York. 
It  was  even  greater  fun  than  he  had  anticipated.  If  it 
had  cost  him  nearly  twice  as  much  as  he  expected,  he  was 
consoled  by  the  constant  and  persistent  demand  for  his 
work.  He  put  a  fixed  price  of  three  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  upon  each  of  his  pretty  girl  heads,  and  did  two, 
sometimes  three,  a  week.  Grumblingly  the  magazines 
paid  his  prices,  but  they  paid  them  and  sent  him  orders 
for  more.  Even  Overman's  was  compelled  by  its  sub 
scribers  to  yield  to  the  demand  for  Carey  Williams'  work. 


258  THE  AMATEUR 


Carey  retained  his  studio  in  the  Rembrandt  building 
until  January  first.  There  he  slept  and  worked  while  his 
Fifty-ninth  Street  apartment  was  being  put  into  shape. 
Christmas  caught  him  busy  with  the  details  of  furnishing 
the  kitchen,  his  own  and  servant's  rooms,  and  providing 
the  necessary  china,  glassware  and  napery.  There  was 
no  dining  room;  his  ordinary  meals  and  the  charming 
little  dinners  he  intended  giving  were  to  be  served  in 
the  studio.  Carey  expected  this  would  be  a  delightful 
feature,  and  he  arranged  to  have  some  round  wooden 
tops  made  to  fit  over  his  long,  massive  oak  table,  and 
thus  be  able  to  seat  comfortably  six  or  eight,  or  even 
more,  of  his  friends. 

Also,  he  spent  considerable  time  and  money  upon  his 
wardrobe.  As  soon  as  he  had  returned,  he  had  given 
an  order  to  a  Fifth  Avenue  tailor  for  several  suits  of 
clothes;  his  silk  shirts,  beautifully  monogramed,  were 
made  to  his  measure  by  another  firm  on  the  Avenue; 
his  shoes,  with  cloth  tops  and  small,  fancy  buttons,  cost 
fifteen  dollars  a  pair.  He  laid  in  a  supply  of  socks  and 
cravats,  and  even  silk  underwear  on  the  same  lavish  scale. 
His  fur  overcoat,  lined  with  matched  skins,  represented 
an  investment  of  five  hundred  dollars. 

Christmas  Eve,  Carey  and  Springer  dined  together  at 
Rector's.  They  ordered  their  dinner  carefully,  and 
Carey  insisted  on  champagne.  The  restaurant  was  filled 
with  extravagantly-dressed  women  in  decollete  gowns, 
their  powdered  white  throats  and  shoulders  alternating 
with  the  stiff,  immaculate  shirt  fronts  of  their  escorts. 
There  was  a  note  of  gaiety  in  the  mingling  of  the  sub 
dued  voices,  the  clink  of  glasses,  the  rattle  of  silverware, 
the  strains  of  the  string  orchestra  at  the  further  end  of 
the  rooms.  Carey  was  reminded  of  the  Sunday  morn 
ing  they  had  breakfasted  at  the  Casino  in  the  Park, — 


THE  AMATEUR  259 


the  morning  he  had  met  Myra.  He  had  been  so  en 
grossed  with  his  new  studio  since  his  return  that  he  had 
only  given  the  girl  an  occasional  thought.  He  wanted  to 
meet  her  again;  it  was  a  pleasure  he  decided  to  defer 
until  he  was  settled.  Springer  had  told  him  what  he  knew 
of  her  the  day  Carey  arrived  in  New  York.  She  had  seen 
him  taking  tea  with  Violet  Burns  and  Cecilia  one  Satur 
day  afternoon  in  the  Palm  Room  at  the  Waldorf,  and  the 
next  time  he  met  her  she  had  presumed  to  take  a  "high 
and  mighty"  tone,  demanding  to  know  who  his  friends 
were  and  what  he  meant  by  making  love  to  another  girl 
before  her  very  eyes.  Springer  had  lifted  his  hat,  turned 
on  his  heel,  and  left  her  without  another  word.  He  was 
indignant  that  she  should  have  dared  to  question  him. 
Since  then  she  had  bombarded  him  with  letters,  telephone 
messages  and  presents.  The  first  and  last,  never  opened, 
he  allowed  to  accumulate  until  a  sufficient  number  war 
ranted  their  return  by  messenger.  The  telephones  he 
always  cut  short  by  hanging  up  the  receiver.  She  had 
presumably  decided  to  leave  him  alone,  now,  for  he  had 
had  no  word  from  her  since  Carey's  return.  There  had 
been  a  row  about  the  same  time  between  her  and  Cunnie 
Bates,  and  she  had  gone  back  to  the  stage. 

"It's  where  she  belongs,"  said  Springer,  sourly.  "She 
knew  she  had  no  business  even  to  bow  to  me  when  I 
was  with  decent  women." 

"And  how  about  the  love  making?"  Carey  asked,  mis 
chievously. 

Springer  dismissed  the  question  with  a  curt,  "Damn 
nonsense!"  But  Carey  began  to  suspect,  from  frequent 
unaccounted  for  and  unexpected  "engagements,"  that 
Springer  was  spending  a  number  of  his  evenings  at  the 
Hotel  Grenoble.  He  knew  his  friend  would  confide  in 
him  if  there  was  ever  any  need  for  confidence;  but  he 


260  THE  AMATEUR 


was  not  the  marrying  kind,  and  the  affair,  if  one  existed, 
was  probably  a  mild  flirtation,  the  innocuousness  of 
which  he  was  ashamed  to  admit. 

It  was  partly  the  sensuous  appeal  of  the  atmosphere 
about  them,  partly  the  warming  effect  of  the  wine,  that 
made  Carey  suddenly  want  to  see  Myra.  She  was  in  the 
chorus  at  the  Casino,  and  although  Springer  had  no  fur 
ther  interest  in  her,  and  had  not  been  to  the  Casino  since 
the  operetta  in  which  she  was  appearing  had  opened,  he 
might  be  persuaded  to  go.  It  was  five  minutes  past  eight 
and  Christmas  Eve.  Still  there  was  just  a  chance  they 
might  be  able  to  get  seats.  Springer's  answer  to  the  sug 
gestion  was  a  grimace  that  eloquently  expressed  how  little 
the  idea  appealed  to  him,  but  Carey  was  both  pleading 
and  insistent. 

"If  you  can  get  seats  this  time  of  night,'*  Springer 
compromised,  "I'll  go." 

With  a  precipitation  that  attracted  some  attention, 
Carey  left  the  restaurant.  It  was  almost  the  half  hour 
when  he  returned  triumphantly,  exhibiting  two  bits  of 
pasteboard. 

"They  cost  me  ten  dollars,"  he  panted. 

"You're  going  crazy,"  Springer  returned  good-hu- 
mouredly. 

They  hurried  into  their  hats  and  coats  and  caught  a 
taxi  in  front  of  the  restaurant. 

It  was  only  a  few  minutes  after  the  curtain's  rise  when 
they  reached  their  seats.  Carey  recognised  Myra  as  he 
came  down  the  aisle.  She  was  second  in  a  line  of  Dutch 
girls  wearing  white-winged  caps  and  wooden  shoes. 
They  were  singing  the  refrain  to  the  ingenue's  song.  For 
the  rest  of  the  evening,  while  she  was  on  the  stage,  his 
eyes  never  left  her;  he  followed  her  movements,  her  en- 


THE  AMATEUR  261 


trances  and  exits,  her  changes  of  costume,  with  a  fixed 
intentness  that  amused  his  companion. 

"She  certainly  has  got  you  on  the  run,"  Springer  said 
banteringly. 

Carey  straightened  himself,  easing  his  constrained  po 
sition,  taking  a  long  breath. 

"My  God,  Springer,"  he  said,  his  voice  betraying  his 
emotion,  "how  does  a  man  like  Cunningham  Bates — what 
does  he — what  kind  of  a  proposition  does  he  make  to  a 
girl  like  that?" 

Springer  drew  away  from  him  in  surprised  disap 
proval. 

"Don't  be  an  utter  fool,  Carey !  I  said  you  were  going 
crazy, — you  are  crazy  I  Why,  Lord  alive,  man,  there  are 
too  many  suckers  like  Cunnie  Bates  flying  round  loose  in 
this  city  for  you  to  join  the  flock.  A  girl  like  Myra 
Rossiter  will  milk  you  of  every  little  red  penny  you've 
got,  if  you're  fool  enough  to  mention  money  to  her. 
Don't  be  an  ass,  Carey !  I  begin  to  think  you  are  getting 
the  big  head,  with  your  success  and  the  easy  money  you 
make." 

After  this,  Carey  decided  to  keep  his  plans  to  himself. 
Some  curious,  unaccountable  change  grew  noticeable  in 
his  friend.  After  the  theatre,  Springer  had  always 
wanted  to  make  the  rounds  of  the  dance  halls  where,  on 
such  nights  as  Christmas  Eve,  all  the  habitues  of  the  re 
sorts  were  out  in  force,  and  where  his  advent  always 
created  a  noticeable  ripple  of  interest. 

"Oh,  here  comes  Fleming  Springer!" 

"Here's  Fleming  Springer!" 

"It's  Fleming  Springer!" 

Overheard,  as  he  followed  Springer  to  a  vacant  table, 
Carey  took  delight  in  these  evidences  of  his  friend's  pop 
ularity.  He  enjoyed  being  seen  with  him.  He,  himself, 


262  THE  AMATEUR 


was  becoming  known,  and  now  that  his  fame  as  an  artist 
was  rapidly  spreading,  he  felt  sure  that  such  remarks, 
announcing  Springer's  entrance,  were  followed  by: 

"And  that's  his  friend,  Carey  Williams;  you  know — 
Carey  Williams — the  fellow  that  draws  all  the  magazine 
covers  now'days!" 

But  to-night,  Springer  was  either  for  going  home  or 
eating  a  mild  supper  at  the  Cafe  Martin.  Carey,  dis 
appointed,  agreed  to  the  supper,  feeling  that  something 
was  altogether  wrong  with  Springer;  but  the  concession 
of  his  having  gone  to  the  Casino  was  all  that  he  could  rea 
sonably  expect. 

It  was  after  they  had  eaten  their  grilled  oysters  and 
were  finishing  their  second  stein  of  beer  that  Carey 
caught  sight  of  a  well-known  face  at  another  table.  It 
drew  from  him  a  glad,  spontaneous  cry: 

"Jerry!" 

The  other  had  seen  him,  too,  and  Carey's  name  had 
sprung  as  readily  to  his  lips.  Together  they  rose  and  met 
half  way,  each  eagerly  seeking  the  other's  hand,  a  smile 
of  happy  recognition  on  both  faces. 

"Why,  you  old  terrapin!"  Jerry  exclaimed,  wringing 
Carey's  hand.  "Who  would  have  known  you  in  such 
fancy  trappings!  You've  become  a  sporty  princeling! 
You  look  like  a  matinee  idol !  But  you're  the  great  Carey 
Williams  now,  I  forgot!" 

"You're  the  same  old  Jerry  Hart!" 

Both  were  laughing  excitedly.  If  there  had  been  any 
constraint  in  Jerry's  manner  at  the  very  first,  it  was 
not  noticeable  after  their  hands  met.  Carey's  cordial 
greeting  left  no  room  for  any  doubt  that  he  had  forgotten 
whatever  resentment  he  might  have  cherished.  Carey 
dismissed  his  grievance  against  Jerry  as  he  might  have 
tossed  away  the  ashes  from  a  cigarette. 


THE  AMATEUR  263 


"Can't  you  come  over  and  join  us?    Who're  y'with?" 

"Those  friends  of  mine  from  Murray  Hill.  They'll  be 
beating  it  soon.  Wait  for  me ;  I'll  be  with  you  as  soon  as 
they  go !" 

Carey  returned  to  his  table,  still  smiling  with  pleasure 
over  the  encounter,  eager  to  tell  Springer  about  Jerry. 
But  Springer  interrupted  him  as  soon  as  he  began. 

"You've  told  me  all  about  this  fellow  before,  Carey. 
Isn't  he  the  man  who  ruined  the  little  girl  at  your  board 
ing  house  and  then  cut  loose?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  you'll  have  to  excuse  me  from  meeting  that 
kind  of  a  rotter.  God  knows,  I've  pretty  elastic  morals 
and  I've  been  entirely  too  promiscuous.  But  that's 
where  I  draw  the  line,  Carey.  I  never  seduced  a  girl  in 
my  life,  and  I  won't  shake  hands  with  a  man  who  has. 
You  and  your  friend  can  go  and  raise  all  the  hell  you 
want  to  to-night,  but  you  can  leave  me  out." 

He  rose  as  he  finished  and  jerked  his  head  at  their 
waiter,  who  came  hurrying  up  with  the  check. 

Carey  regarded  him,  surprised  and  hurt. 

"It's  hard  for  me  to  bear  a  grudge  against  any  one  like 
that,  Springer.  I'm  not  vindictive,"  he  offered  lamely. 

Springer  gave  the  waiter  a  bill,  and  paused  a  moment, 
his  hand  on  a  chair  back. 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  a  grudge,"  he  said.  "I  wouldn't 
associate  with  a  leper,  and  I  won't  mix  with  a  man  who 
I  know  is  worse  than  a  leper  inside.  I'm  surprised,  after 
what  you  have  told  me  you  went  through  on  account  of 
this  person,  that  you  now  are  willing  to  take  up  with  him 
as  if  nothing  had  happened.  I'm  damned  surprised. 
I'm  beginning  to  think  I've  been  mistaken  in  you  alto 
gether." 

He  left  without  further  words,  and  Carey  saw  him 


264  THE  AMATEUR 


presently  in  the  foyer,  struggling  into  his  overcoat  that 
the  hat-boy  held  for  him.  Carey  sat  sullenly  making  a 
paste  of  his  cigar  ashes  and  some  beer  drippings  that  had 
fallen  into  his  plate  from  the  bottom  of  his  stein.  He 
was  regarding  the  mess,  absently  stirring  it  with  the  end 
of  a  match,  telling  himself  that  Springer  was  no  longer 
the  happy,  free,  pleasure-loving  friend  he  had  once  so 
enjoyed  following  about,  when  Jerry  came  behind  him, 
clapped  him  affectionately  on  the  shoulder  and  slid  into 
Springer's  vacant  chair. 

At  once  was  forgotten  Carey's  wavering  resolve  to  tell 
him  frankly  that  he  had  responded  to  an  impulse  to  be 
friendly  when  he  first  had  seen  him,  but  the  recollection 
of  certain  unhappy  incidents  made  it  impossible  for  them 
to  resume  their  old  relationship.  He  beckoned  to  the 
waiter  and  gave  the  order  for  what  they  wished  to  drink, 
then  called  him  back  and  substituted  champagne.  De 
liberately  he  shut  his  eyes  to  what  he  was  doing.  He 
knew  only  that  he  liked  Jerry  and  that  life  was  too 
short  to  treasure  resentment.  He  refused  to  think  about 
Anna,  and  her  part  in  their  reminiscences  was  carefully 
avoided. 

It  was  a  long  night,  with  the  relationship  of  the  two 
one-time  friends  reversed.  It  was  Carey  who  drove 
about  in  a  hired  automobile,  showing  Jerry  new  dance- 
halls,  strange  and  lurid  resorts,  that  evoked  the  other's 
surprise  and  wonder.  In  some  of  these  it  was  gratify 
ing  to  be  recognised  by  the  head  waiter  or  floor  manager, 
if  only  as  Fleming  Springer's  friend.  Once  he  thought 
he  heard  a  girl  whisper  his  name  to  her  companion. 
Some  wild  excitement  possessed  him  after  that.  He 
turned  to  the  girl  who  had  joined  him  at  their  table,  his 
eyes  roving  wildly. 

"Let's  tear  the  lid  off  to-night!    What  do  you  say?" 


THE  AMATEUR  265 


Thereafter,  wherever  they  went,  Carey  ordered  a  quart 
of  wine,  which  was  never  finished ;  they  left  for  another 
dance-hall  before  the  bottle  was  half  empty. 

It  was  an  orgy,  a  night  of  mad  revel.  Various  in 
cidents  that  happened  during  it,  came  back  humiliatingly 
to  Carey's  sick  and  troubled  mind  the  following  morning. 
He  dimly  remembered  insisting  that  the  crowd  of  them, 
— the  car  was  full  of  pick-ups  of  the  night, — should  ac 
company  him  to  the  Grand  Central  Station.  He  was  in 
tent  on  showing  them  at  the  news  stand  the  row  of  six 
magazines  whose  covers  he  had  drawn,  never  doubting 
that  the  arrangement  had  been  preserved  since  the  day 
of  his  arrival.  There  had  also  been  a  narrow  escape 
from  arrest  when  he  was  roughly  prevented  from  con 
tinuing  a  rain  of  blows  upon  the  padlocked  door  of  a 
dimly  lit  florist  shop.  He  had  wanted  to  leave  an  order 
for  an  impressive  floral  piece  to  be  sent  to  Myra.  Jerry 
lay  asleep  in  the  tonneau  of  the  car,  insensible  to  every 
thing.  The  chauffeur  who  had  driven  them  about  through 
the  night — a  kindly,  pleasant- faced  chap — interceded  and 
offered  to  take  Carey  home.  Vaguely,  part  of  their  con 
versation  came  back  to  him  :  the  deep,  reprimanding  voice 
of  the  policeman  and  the  deprecatory  tone  of  the  chauf 
feur  and  his  oft-repeated  phrase : 

"He's  only  a  kid— he's  only  a  kid." 

'But  what  stung  his  smarting  conscience  like  a  whip-lash 
was  the  recollection  of  himself  standing  up  in  the  auto 
mobile,  as  it  sped  along  Broadway  early  in  the  evening, 
shouting  out  his  own  name  to  the  staring  faces  of  the 
pedestrians  on  the  sidewalks : 

"You  know  who  I  am  ?  I'm  Carey  Williams ;  I'm  the 
artist,  Carey  Williams!" 

When  he  awoke,  he  found  himself  in  his  own  quar 
ters  at  The  Rembrandt  Studios,  lying  upon  the  couch 


266  THE  AMATEUR 


where  he  had  been  flung  by  whomever  had  carried  him 
in.  With  the  exception  of  his  coat  and  vest,  collar  and 
tie,  he  was  still  dressed.  These  lay  on  the  floor,  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  The  neckband  of  his  shirt,  still 
buttoned,  was  choking  him  painfully.  He  could  feel  the 
congested  blood  pounding  in  his  head.  With  difficulty 
he  wrenched  his  shirt  open  and  lifted  himself  upon  one 
elbow.  The  room  swam  round  and  round  him,  until  he 
was  compelled  to  shut  his  eyes.  Never  had  he  experi 
enced  such  fierce  physical  agony  after  a  night's  debauch. 
He  sank  shuddering  back  upon  the  couch. 

Outside,  the  church  bells  were  cheerily  ringing  their 
summons  to  Christmas  service. 


CHAPTER   VII 


FIFTY  thousand  calendars  by  Carey  Williams  were 
sold  in  New  York  City  before  the  first  of  the  year ; 
nearly  that  many  were  sold  elsewhere.  Carey's  royalties 
came  in  a  cheque  from  the  publishing  house  for  twenty- 
three  thousand  dollars. 

The  afternoon  of  the  day  it  arrived,  he  bought  a  five- 
thousand-dollar  motor  car,  a  new  model  built  on  the  most 
rakish  lines.  It  was  in  this,  ten  days  later,  he  drove 
Myra  to  Atlantic  City,  where  they  remained  for  what 
seemed  to  Carey  ten  days  of  luxuriant  irresponsibility 
and  lazy  pleasure.  If,  after  the  first  forty-eight  hours,  a 
disquieting  doubt  arose  in  his  heart  that,  perhaps,  he  had 
been  a  little  precipitate  and  that  the  arrangement  lacked 
the  romance  he  expected,  he  stifled  the  feeling  as  one 
of  which  he  ought  to  be  ashamed.  He  was  troubled  also 
by  the  coarseness  of  the  girl's  mind.  Not  that  she  was 
coarse  in  either  speech  or  manner ;  it  was  rather  the  lack 
of  cleanness  and  fineness  in  her  he  felt.  He  refused, 
however,  to  let  these  things  worry  him  seriously. 

Upon  their  arrival,  he  was  far  more  concerned  by  self- 
consciousness,  and  the  fear  that  people  on  the  Board 
Walk,  on  the  verandas,  and  in  the  lobby  of  their  hotel  at 
once  recognised  their  illicit  relationship.  He  suspected 
that  it  was  palpable  to  every  one.  Myra  gave  him  the 
benefit  of  her  silvery  laugh  when  he  confessed  this  to  her. 

267 


268  THE  AMATEUR 


What  observers  thought  had  no  terrors  for  her;  their 
stares  were  incense  to  her.  It  was  surprising  how  soon 
Carey  himself  grew  used  to  it.  Myra's  beauty  was  more 
sumptuous  than  ever,  and  in  the  marvellous  array  of  new 
frocks,  coats  and  hats  of  which  she  had  laid  in  a  large 
supply  before  they  left  New  York,  she  drew  the  admira 
tion  of  every  one.  It  required  five  trunks  and  as  many 
hat  trunks  to  contain  her  wardrobe  for  the  brief  visit  to 
the  seashore.  Carey  had  paid  Madam  Osborne's  bill,  the 
Louise  and  the  Maison  de  Blanc  accounts  cheerfully.  If 
they  had  been  twice  their  size,  he  would  have  paid  them 
with  as  little  thought.  He  wasn't  sure  of  what  he  did 
these  days.  He  felt  giddy  the  greater  part  of  the  time. 

If  there  were  a  sophisticated  few  who  understood  the 
situation,  the  majority  saw  in  them  only  a  bride  and 
groom.  It  was  their  extreme  youth  that  lent  colour  to  this 
supposition.  Outside  of  Myra's  loveliness,  the  attention 
they  attracted  was  only  that  of  such  idle  curiosity  as  all 
brides  and  grooms  awake.  To  the  other  guests  in  the 
hotel,  Carey  was  a  millionaire's  son  with  his  young  wife, 
his  transparent  embarrassment,  so  obviously  due  to  his 
new  wedded  happiness,  an  attractive  and  charming 
quality.  Myra's  ultra- fashionableness  raised  some  doubts 
in  the  minds  of  a  few  of  the  older  women,  but  she 
dressed  in  such  perfect  taste  and  preserved  so  disarming  a 
demureness  that  these  doubts  were  no  more  than  passing. 

On  their  way  back  to  New  York,  they  motored  first  to 
Philadelphia,  and  spent  three  days  at  the  Bellevue-Strat- 
ford. 

It  was  not  until  his  return  that  Carey  learned  of 
Springer's  marriage.  Knowing  how  his  friend  would 
have  ridiculed  him  if  he  had  confided  his  plans  to  him, 
he  had  said  nothing  about  his  intentions  regarding  Myra, 


THE  AMATEUR  269 


nor  had  he  told  him  that  he  was  going  to  be  out  of  town 
for  a  fortnight.  His  mail  had  accumulated  during  his 
absence  to  a  surprising  quantity.  The  Japanese,  Naka, 
who  was  cook,  butler  and  valet,  had  arranged  it  in 
neat  piles  upon  the  massive  oak  table  in  the  studio.  On 
top  lay  the  three  yellow  envelopes  containing  Springer's 
telegrams.  The  first  read : 

"Where  are  you?    I  must  see  you  at  once." 

The  second  was  equally  imperative: 

"Call  me  up  at  my  studio  at  once." 

It  was  the  third  that  affected  Carey  as  a  body  blow. 
He  sank  into  one  of  the  deep  upholstered  chairs  and 
stared  at  it  blankly,  occasionally  drawing  long  breaths 
and  rubbing  his  eyes  vigorously,  as  if  his  eyesight  were 
defective.  He  still  wore  his  great  fur  coat,  and  his 
gauntlets  lay  in  his  lap.  The  Japanese  moved  silently 
about,  drawing  the  silk  runners  across  the  high-prismed 
windows,  switching  on  the  lights  that  lit  the  studio  from 
the  sides  beneath  the  gallery,  applying  a  match  to  the 
log  fire  already  laid. 

"Cecilia!"  He  kept  repeating  the  name  softly.  Then, 
aloud,  he  said,  speaking  unconsciously :  "Well,  why  the 
devil  didn't  he  tell  me!" 

He  felt  that  Springer  had  deceived  him,  that  he  had 
been  hoodwinked.  At  the  thought  of  his  friend's  defec 
tion — so  it  appeared  to  him — he  experienced  a  curious 
sense  of  weakness;  it  was  as  if  a  prop  had  been  knocked 
from  under  him.  He  glanced  upward  at  the  high  roof  of 
the  studio  and  about  its  tapestried  walls;  swift  thoughts 
of  his  new  car  and  Myra  passed  through  his  mind.  He 
felt  abandoned,  duped.  Springer's  action  was  treacher 
ous.  Where  would  he  have  found  the  courage,  he  asked, 
illogically,  to  have  let  himself  in  for  "all  this"  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  Springer?  He  began  to  feel  afraid. 


270  THE  AMATEUR 


Provoked  and  angry,  he  called  up  the  Tenth  Street  stu 
dio.  It  was  Mark  Harrison  who  answered  the  telephone. 
A  quick  interchange  of  questions,  answers  and  exclama 
tions  followed. 

"I  was  equally  surprised,  Carey,"  Harrison  said.  "I 
knew  he  had  some  girl  on  the  string  by  the  way  he  acted. 
It  was  the  fact  that  he  didn't  babble  about  her  that  made 
me  think  once  or  twice  he  meant  business.  He  drove 
up  here  in  a  taxi  last  Tuesday ; — walked  into  the  room  as 
if  he  hadn't  a  thing  on  his  mind.  'Mark,'  he  says,  'I'm 
going  to  get  married  this  afternoon ;  I'd  like  you  to  come 
along!'  You  can  imagine  how  I  felt.  I  looked  at  him 
kind  of  blankly;  I  couldn't  think  what  to  say.  It  made 
him  sore.  'Damn,'  he  says,  'haven't  I  got  a  friend  in 
this  city  to  wish  me  luck?'  I  came  to  life  then  and  said 
something  that  made  him  laugh.  As  soon  as  I  had  scram 
bled  into  my  duds — he  had  to  wait  till  I  shaved — I  went 
down  with  him  to  the  taxi,  and  there  sat  the  girl  in  the 
corner.  'Miss  Shaughnessy,'  he  says,  'this  is  my  friend 
Mark  Harrison!'  'How  do  you  do,'  I  says,  and  we  all 
got  into  the  taxi.  Both  of  them  were  rather  excited,  as 
you  may  imagine,  but  old  Fleming  was  as  glum  as  an 
oyster.  'Isn't  this  kind  of  sudden?'  I  asked  after  a  while. 
'Yes,'  he  says,  'but  it  had  to  be  that  way, — and  that's 
what  I  like  about  it,  don't  you,  dear  ?'  he  says,  turning  to 
the  girl.  At  that  she  begins  to  cry,  and  I  sat  there,  feel 
ing  like  a  fool,  looking  out  of  the  window  all  the  rest  of 
the  way. 

"We  stopped  at  a  priest's  house  back  of  that  Catholic 
church  up  there  on  West  Thirty-sixth  Street,  and  all  of 
us  got  out  and  went  in.  There's  another  girl  and  her  lit 
tle  sister  waiting  for  us.  Her  name  was  Burns,  and,  be 
fore  we  had  a  chance  to  say  more  than  'How  do  you  do' 
to  each  other,  the  priest  comes  in  and  they're  married  in 


THE  AMATEUR  271 


less  time  than  you  could  spin  a  quarter.  Fleming  kisses 
the  girl  spank  on  the  mouth  and  calls  her  'wife/  and  I 
sign  something  and  the  damn  thing's  done,  sealed  and 
delivered.  Flem  says  to  me,  Til  see  you  as  soon  as  we 
get  back ;  and  I'm  good  for  my  share  of  the  studio's  rent.' 
'Damn  the  studio's  rent/  I  says,  'where's  Carey?'  'I 
wish  to  God  I  knew/  he  says;  and  then  he  and  his  wife 
go  down  the  stairs  and  get  into  the  taxi  and  off  they  go. 

"Miss  Burns  and  I  were  standing  on  the  stoop.  She 
was  mopping  her  eyes,  and  I  ventured  my  same  question 
again :  'Kind  of  sudden,  wasn't  it  ?'  'Yes/  says  she,  'her 
aunt  died.' 

"And  that's  all  I  know,  Carey.  I  never  saw  any  one 
so  crazy  about  a  girl  in  my  life!  And  I  could  have  bet 
a  fortune  that  he'd  never  be  satisfied  with  any  one  girl 
enough  to  make  her  Mrs.  Springer." 

As  Carey  hung  up  the  telephone,  it  occurred  to  him  to 
wonder  at  the  singular  twist  of  the  wheel  of  fortune  by 
which  Cecilia  had  become  Springer's  wife,  and  Myra  his 
mistress.  Springer  had  the  best  of  the  exchange.  He 
was  heartily  glad  that  this  was  so.  His  loyalty  and  af 
fection  for  Springer  had  not  abated,  and  nothing  was 
too  good  for  his  friend.  Cecilia  would  make  him  a  per 
fect  wife,  but  he  wondered  about  Springer's  constancy. 

Carey  already  felt  a  certain  disillusionment  with 
Myra.  He  had  imagined  that  the  compact  between  them 
would  provide  him  with  a  companion  as  well  as  a  mis 
tress,  but  Myra  was  a  creature  of  profound  selfishness. 
She  would  consent  to  do  only  what  appealed  to  her  as 
agreeable.  She  had  no  consideration  for  Carey's  wishes. 
Outside  her  love  for  Springer,  her  sole  interests  in  life 
were  her  clothes  and  the  preservation  of  her  beauty.  She 
was  an  orchid,  a  hybrid  species,  parasitic  in  mind  and 
heart.  Carey  had  hoped  to  establish  a  friendship  between 


272  THE  AMATEUR 


them.  Myra  disgusted  him  by  regarding  their  relation 
as  purely  one  of  business.  It  was  her  manner  of  exist 
ence  ;  she  possessed  no  other  code.  As  much  as  her  na 
ture  was  capable,  she  loved  Springer  sincerely  and  pas 
sionately.  Knowing  that  Carey  understood  this,  she 
made  for  him  no  pretence  of  affection.  He  was  hurt  and 
jealous;  but  his  jealousy  was  impersonal.  Somehow,  it 
never  occurred  to  him  to  lay  this  at  Springer's  door. 

He  feared  also  that  Myra  held  him  rather  in  con 
tempt,  regarding  him  as  what  he  knew  he  was :  a  "good 
thing," — a  kid  with  a  "bunch  of  money."  But,  as  with 
many  other  things  these  days,  he  shut  his  eyes  to  it.  She 
was  lovely, — and  her  beauty  made  up  for  a  thousand 
shortcomings.  Besides,  he  was  proud  of  her,  proud  to 
be  seen  with  her,  proud  of  the  fact  that  he  was  keeping 
a  mistress. 

He  established  her  in  a  beautifully  appointed  apart 
ment  belonging  to  an  actress — a  friend  of  Myra's — who 
was  playing  a  forty  weeks'  engagement  on  the  Orpheum 
circuit  in  the  west.  It  was  situated  on  upper  Broadway, 
near  the  Ansonia  Hotel,  and  proved  a  dainty  setting  for 
Myra's  exotic  beauty.  There  were  inlaid  floors  and  glass- 
folding  doors,  rugs  and  soft  brocade  hangings.  A  colour 
scheme  of  old  rose  predominated,  relieved  here  and  there 
by  Watteau  figures  in  china,  on  panelled  screens,  in  old 
seventeenth  century  prints.  But  the  charm  of  visiting  her 
here  was  always  spoilt  by  an  invariable  encounter  with 
Myra's  women  friends,  even  when  he  had  announced  by 
telephone  his  intention  of  coming  out  to  see  her.  He  met 
them  on  the  steps,  in  the  halls,  comfortably  established 
on  the  satin-covered  settees  and  spindle-legged  chairs  of 
the  tiny  reception  room,  even  in  Myra's  boudoir.  They 
greeted  him,  he  thought,  with  mock  politeness.  He  fan 
cied,  when  he  heard  their  laughter  and  Myra's  silvery  ac- 


THE  AMATEUR  273 


companiment,  that  he  was  always  the  subject  of  their 
mirth.  He  was  constantly  finding  occasion  to  reassure 
himself  that  he  was  fanciful,  distrustful.  He  was  too 
conscious  of  his  youth,  he  told  himself,  and  there  was 
never  any  concrete  evidence  of  the  truth  of  his  suspicions. 
More  comfort  and  satisfaction  came  to  him  in  driving 
his  new  high-powered  motor  car.  Myra  insisted  upon  be 
ing  properly  dressed  and  heavily  veiled,  or  otherwise  she 
firmly  declined  to  accompany  him.  Even  when  she  con 
sented,  she  refused  to  allow  him  to  go  fast.  Nothing 
thrilled  Carey's  senses  more  than,  when  he  reached  a  bit 
of  straight  road,  to  "let  her  out."  He  meant  to  establish 
a  record  that  no  machine  had  ever  passed  him.  As  a  fox 
stalks  a  wild  bird  in  the  forest,  he  would  mark  some 
car  far  ahead  of  him  as  his  prey  and  bear  down  upon 
it,  keeping  just  ahead  after  he  had  passed  it,  for  a  few 
minutes,  to  give  its  occupants  the  full  benefit  of  his  dust 
and  smoke.  He  preferred  to  have  Mark  Harrison  ac 
company  him,  rather  than  Myra,  and  one  night  he  dis 
covered  where  McNeil  and  French  modestly  kept  house 
on  East  Twelfth  Street,  and  drove  them  over  the  Brook 
lyn  Bridge  to  Coney  Island  and  back. 

One  day,  when  he  was  on  the  way  to  get  his  car  from 
the  repair  shop,  he  met  Gregory  Shilling  on  the  street. 
The  other  did  not  remember  him  at  first.  Carey  was 
much  changed  from  the  fledgling  with  awkward,  boyish 
manners  who  had  impulsively  called  on  him  nearly  two 
years  ago.  As  soon  as  Shilling  identified  him,  he  was 
effusively  cordial,  recalled  Carey's  visit  perfectly,  even 
remembered  his  name,  and  confessed  he  had  watched  his 
rise  with  enthusiastic  interest.  He  told  Carey  he  had  re 
lated  the  story  of  his  call  upon  him  a  score  of  times.  He 
was  delighted  that  Carey  had  taken  the  trouble  to  stop 


274  THE  AMATEUR 


him  on  the  street  and  speak  to  him.  He  never  would 
have  recognised  him. 

The  result  of  this  chance  encounter  was  an  invitation 
from  Shilling  to  be  his  guest  at  the  Society  of  Illustra 
tors'  annual  smoker  at  the  Berkeley  Lyceum;  Shilling 
wanted  him  to  dine  with  him  beforehand ;  he  was  giving 
a  dinner  to  a  couple  of  cousins  from  Chicago.  Carey 
was  immensely  gratified  by  his  friendliness,  and  bought  a 
new  suit  for  the  occasion.  He  determined  to  return  the 
hospitality  in  a  lavish  manner. 

Shilling  entertained  them  at  a  restaurant  called  The 
Alps,  an  attractive,  unpretentious  place  in  the  vicinity 
of  his  studio.  Besides  the  cousins,  two  drab  little  fel 
lows,  well  fitted  to  the  name  of  Grey,  the  host  had  invited 
Merrivale,  the  Art  Editor  of  the  fashion  magazine,  So 
ciety,  and  Castle  Jerome,  another  artist,  at  the  top  of  his 
profession,  whose  work  Carey  had  long  admired.  He 
was  a  man  about  fifty,  very  bald,  with  many  gold  teeth 
in  his  head.  Two  lower  incisors  in  either  side  of  his 
jaw,  plated  solidly  with  gold,  gave  the  effect  of  a  tiger's 
fangs.  He  was  an  admirable  story-teller,  and  kept  them 
all  laughing ;  the  dinner  was  a  great  success.  They  were 
still  in  a  hilarious  mood  when,  about  a  quarter  to  nine, 
they  reached  the  Berkeley  Lyceum.  The  theatre  was  al 
ready  crowded,  a  thick  haze  of  tobacco  smoke  rising 
above  the  heads  of  the  audience  composed  entirely  of 
men.  As  nothing  was  reserved,  they  found  seats  with 
difficulty,  the  party  separating,  Gregory  Shilling  piloting 
the  two  drab  little  cousins  down  a  side  aisle.  Carey  sat 
with  Castle  Jerome  and  Merrivale. 

Everybody  seemed  to  know  everybody  else.  There 
were  continued  staccato  greetings  fired  back  and  forth 
in  the  theatre,  like  tennis  balls  over  a  net. 

"Oh  you— Allan!" 


THE  AMATEUR  275 


"Hello  there,  Terry!" 

"Har— ree!    Oh  Har—ree  Grant!" 

Carey  was  eager  to  have  Merrivale  point  out  the  ce 
lebrities  among  the  illustrators  who  were  present.  He  was 
conscious  others  near  him  were  looking  at  him  and  whis 
pering  his  name.  He  saw  Ben  Mercy  and  Sherman,  old 
Blake  of  the  Occident,  the  detested  Art  Editor  of  Over 
man's,  and  a  number  of  others  to  whom  he  was  able  to 
bow.  Sitting  next  to  him  was  a  small  person  with  a  funny 
little  putty  nose  and  bushy  eyebrows.  He  was  evidently 
well-known  and  popular  among  his  fellow-craftsmen. 
Presently  Castle  Jerome  leaned  across  Carey  to  speak  to 
him,  and  he  made  the  pleasing  discovery  that  his  neigh 
bour  was  Mason  Edward  Camp.  Jerome,  introducing  him, 
mentioned  him  only  as  Mr.  Williams.  No  one  would  ever 
identify  him  by  his  surname  alone,  thought  Carey.  He 
was  a  trifle  chagrined  at  Jerome's  indifference;  he  was 
sure  that  there  wasn't  a  man  in  the  theatre  who  was  not 
jealous  of  his  success  and  who  would  not  be  interested 
in  knowing  that  the  slight,  blond  fellow  down  there  in 
the  tenth  row  was  the  one  who  had  the  whole  of  New 
York  City  by  the  ears.  He  was  composing  a  sentence  by 
which  he  could  tactfully  apprise  Mr.  Camp  of  the  fact 
that  the  Mr.  Williams  next  to  whom  he  was  sitting  was 
none  other  than  Carey  Williams,  when  a  general  shuffling 
of  feet  drew  attention  to  a  pompous,  white-haired,  fat  lit 
tle  man  with  a  white  walrus  moustache  entering  one  of 
the  stage  boxes  with  a  party  of  friends. 

"That's  Harry  Lamberton  Lewis/'  whispered  Merri 
vale.  "He  takes  himself  pretty  seriously,  and  the  fellows 
are  always  quietly  joshing  him/' 

There  prevailed  an  atmosphere  of  sustained  excite 
ment  in  the  theatre.  Long  ago  the  last  seat  had  been  oc 
cupied  and  late-comers  crowded  the  wide  passage-way 


276  THE  AMATEUR 


back  of  the  tiers  of  seats.  Their  faces  banked  the  space 
beneath  the  brass  rods  that  supported  the  short,  plush  cur 
tains, — now  tightly  pushed  back, — above  the  last  line  of 
orchestra  chairs.  There  was  a  continual  coming  and  go 
ing,  men  passing  up  and  down  the  aisles,  worming  their 
way  to  and  from  their  seats,  squeezing  past  the  row  of 
intervening  knees  with  laughing  apologies.  Part  of  the 
audience  began  to  stamp  impatiently ;  a  number  down  in 
front  commenced  a  song,  immediately  to  be  interrupted 
by  cat-calls  and  howls  from  other  parts  of  the  house. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  storm  of  vehement  applause,  a 
thundering  acclamation  from  every  pair  of  hands  in  the 
theatre. 

"It's  Charles  Hanna  Simpson,"  whispered  Merrivale 
in  Carey's  ear.  "They  all  love  him;  everybody  does! 
Isn't  he  magnificent?" 

A  large,  powerfully  built  man,  with  grizzled  hair  and 
moustache  and  a  sharp,  hawk-like  face,  stood  at  the  rail 
ing  of  a  stage  box,  acknowledging  the  welcome  with  a 
ceremonious  bow.  Carey  leaned  forward  eagerly  for  an 
unobstructed  view.  He  was  deeply  interested.  Charles 
Hanna  Simpson  had  been  in  the  front  rank  of  the  best 
American  illustrators  for  nearly  twenty  years.  He  pos 
sessed  an  international  reputation,  both  as  a  painter  and 
illustrator.  Carey  was  impressed  by  his  commanding 
bearing  and  the  aloof  dignity  of  the  man. 

There  was  another  burst  of  hand-clapping.  The  leader 
of  the  orchestra, — a  member  of  the  Society, — stood  up, 
glancing  right  and  left  at  the  upturned  faces  beneath  him. 
He  rapped  smartly  upon  the  rack  in  front  of  him  with 
his  baton,  swung  his  extended  arms  together  and  led  the 
little  orchestra  into  the  opening  bars  of  the  weird,  ori 
ental  music  he  had  composed  for  the  occasion. 

The  performance  consisted  of  two  offerings,  both  writ- 


THE  AMATEUR  277 


ten  by  members  of  the  Society  and  acted  by  them.  Some 
professional  girl  models,  excessively  pretty  and  clever, 
took  the  female  roles.  Carey  wondered  at  their  assur 
ance  and  their  indifference  to  the  character  of  the  audi 
ence.  Both  plays  were  broad,  the  first  one  amazingly 
clever,  the  second  uproariously  funny.  Amused  smiles 
were  still  on  the  faces  of  the  audience  as,  in  compact  col 
umns,  it  choked  the  narrow  aisles  and  slowly  emptied  it 
self  into  the  street,  when  the  final  curtain  brought  the 
entertainment  to  an  end. 

Carey  was  in  high  spirits.  His  presence  at  this  affair, 
among  these  men  of  his  profession,  was  the  last  grati 
fying  touch  of  approval  that  was  needed  to  make  utterly 
complete  the  perfect  enjoyment  of  his  meteoric  and  as 
tonishing  success.  He  felt  that  his  election  to  the  Society 
of  Illustrators  was  now  inevitable  and  must  shortly  take 
place. 

As  he  emerged  from  the  hot,  close  theatre,  the  cold, 
night  air  filling  his  lungs  affected  him  like  a  powerful 
stimulant.  He  didn't  want  the  evening  to  be  over;  a 
craving  for  more  excitement  possessed  him.  As  he 
reached  the  street,  he  slipped  his  hand  under  Merrivale's 
elbow. 

"Can't  we  go  some  place  and  get  something  to  eat?" 
he  said.  "We  might  get  a  bunch  together — you  know 
the  fellows  better  than  I  do — I'd  like  to  give  a  party." 

"I  dare  say  some  of  the  boys  will  go  across  the  street 
to  Sherry's  for  a  drink  before  they  go  home,"  Merrivale 
replied  noncommittally. 

"Well,  let's  go  over,  too,  and  see  who's  there,"  Carey 
suggested  enthusiastically. 

They  said  good-night  to  Gregory  Shilling  and  his 
cousins  and  followed  the  straggling  groups  of  twos  and 
threes  that  made  for  the  revolving  glass  door  across 


278  THE  AMATEUR 


the  street.  They  found  some  thirty  or  forty  of  the  au 
dience  in  the  cafe,  either  standing  at  the  bar  or  distributed 
among  the  tables.  At  a  vacant  one  they  seated  them 
selves,  and  Carey  ordered  champagne.  Merrivale  pro 
tested  at  the  needlessness  of  this,  but  Carey  insisted. 

It  was  simultaneous  with  the  arrival  of  the  wine  that 
Ben  Mercy  and  Mason  Edward  Camp  entered  the  cafe. 
Impulsively,  Carey  jumped  to  his  feet  and  intercepted 
them  on  their  way  to  the  bar,  urging  them  to  sit  at  his 
table.  He  felt  that  Mercy  had  always  had  a  liking  for 
him,  and  he  was  anxious  to  make  a  more  definite  impres 
sion  on  Camp.  The  Art  Editor  good-humouredly  accept 
ed  for  both,  and  Carey  presently  felt  a  glow  of  satisfac 
tion  and  pride  as  he  sat  between  the  two  magazine  men 
where  he  could  be  seen  by  others  in  the  cafe.  He  was 
gratified  by  Camp's  show  of  interest  in  the  methods  by 
which  he  worked  and  he  took  pains  to  explain  them  to 
him,  telling  him  of  the  strawboard  and  its  remarkable 
properties.  Both  Mercy  and  the  artist  substituted  milder 
drinks  for  the  champagne  Carey  urged  upon  them,  but  a 
curly-headed,  round-eye-glassed  friend  of  Mercy's,  who 
came  up  to  speak  to  him,  accepted  Carey's  invitation  and 
drew  up  a  chair.  Carey  didn't  catch  his  name. 

Some  fifteen  minutes  later,  the  various  groups  at  the 
bar  and  about  the  tables  began  to  break  up.  As  the  men 
passed  where  they  sat,  most  of  them  bowed  or  spoke 
to  Ben  Mercy  and  Merrivale.  Carey's  heart  swelled 
with  pride.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  be  seen  in  such 
company,  on  apparently  intimate  terms.  He  was  sure 
that  when  they  were  in  the  foyer,  or  had  reached  the 
street,  the  men  who  had  passed  him  would  ask  each  other 
who  was  the  chap  hobnobbing  with  the  Art  Editors. 
While  he  appeared  to  listen  to  Camp,  he  was  composing 
an  imaginary  conversation.  It  dealt  in  varying  forms 


THE  AMATEUR  279 


with  the  surprise  they  expressed  when  they  learnt  that 
he  was  Carey  Williams. 

These  pleasing  reflections  were  interrupted  by  the 
departure  of  Camp  and  Ben  Mercy.  The  latter  had  to 
catch  a  train  for  his  home  in  Mount  Vernon.  Merrivale, 
however,  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded  to  remain  a 
little  longer,  and  the  curly-headed,  round-eye-glassed  man 
showed  no  inclination  to  go.  Carey  ordered  another 
quart  of  wine. 

The  cafe  was  fast  becoming  empty.  A  group  of  five 
or  six  still  lingered  at  the  bar.  They  were  listening  at 
tentively  to  an  argument  between  two  of  their  number. 
A  tall  man  in  a  fur-collared  overcoat  and  silk  hat  was 
emphasising  the  points  he  was  making  by  firm  slaps  of 
his  fingertips  on  the  palm  of  his  other  hand.  The  one 
whom  he  addressed  was  short  and  stocky ;  his  beard  was 
scrawny,  and  his  hair  stuck  out  from  under  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat  like  stalks  from  a  bale  of  hay. 

"That's  Graham  Johns,  the  writer,"  Merrivale  an 
nounced  to  Carey,  noticing  his  attention.  "He's  always 
arguing  about  something.  The  little  chap  is  Bonestell. 
I  like  his  Indian  stuff  immensely,  don't  you  ?  Bob  Wilder 
is  standing  between  them.  He  took  the  leading  part  to 
night  in  Charley  Miller's  play.  Clever,  wasn't  he  ?" 

Carey  regarded  the  group  for  some  moments  without 
answering  Merrivale.  An  idea  occurred  to  him  and 
he  rose  slowly  from  his  seat.  Not  until  he  was  on  his 
feet  was  he  aware  that  the  wine  had  strongly  affected 
him.  With  careful  deliberation  he  approached  the  bar. 

"Will  you  gentlemen  join  us?"  He  indicated  the  table 
where  Merrivale  and  the  curly-headed,  round-eye-glassed 
person  were  still  sitting.  He  spoke  slowly,  taking  pains 
to  articulate  each  word  distinctly. 

Graham  Johns  paused  for  a  moment,  his  hand  sus- 


280  THE  AMATEUR 


pended  in  the  air.  They  all  turned  and  looked  at  him. 
Carey's  eyes  travelled  from  face  to  face,  waiting  for 
some  one  to  answer  him.  They  continued  to  stare  blankly 
at  him,  a  mild  surprise  in  their  attitude.  The  pause  was 
long  enough  to  be  embarrassing.  Carey  felt  his  colour 
rising. 

"Perhaps  you  don't  know  who  I  am,"  he  said.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  the  information  would  have  its 
effect.  "I'm  Carey  Williams!" 

No  change  in  the  fixed  look  on  their  faces  followed 
the  announcement.  Then  abruptly  there  was  a  diversion. 
Some  one  had  entered  the  cafe  behind  him.  He  saw  the 
gaze  of  the  men  he  was  addressing  shift  past  him.  Who 
ever  it  was  possessed  more  interest  for  them  at  the 
moment  than  he  did.  He  turned. 

It  was  Charles  Hanna  Simpson,  and  he  was  drunk. 
He  advanced  and  stood  before  Carey,  towering  above 
him,  his  silk  hat  a  little  on  one  side.  For  a  brief  moment 
they  stared  fixedly  at  one  another,  Simpson  swaying 
slightly  as  he  strove  to  retain  his  equilibrium. 

"Did — did  you  say  your  name  was — Carey  Williams  ?" 
he  asked.  He  lurched  forward  heavily,  catching  at  the 
back  of  a  chair  to  steady  himself.  Instinctively  Carey 
sensed  his  attitude  to  be  antagonistic.  He  nodded 
briefly. 

"You  could  do  American  Art  and  the  profession  of  the 
illustrator  a  lasting  service  if  you  wanted  to,  my  young 
friend." 

Simpson  spoke  with  difficulty,  the  words  sliding  into 
one  another,  the  sibilants  coming  from  his  lips  hissing. 

Carey  did  not  answer.  He  continued  to  gaze  fixedly 
at  him,  conscious  of  the  silence  and  the  tension  of  the 
situation.  Simpson  desired  an  answer. 

"Do  you  want  to  know  how?"  he  insisted. 


THE  AMATEUR  281 


Carey  slowly  inclined  his  head. 

Simpson  took  a  step  nearer  him. 

"By  cutting  your  throat  from  ear  to  ear !" 

He  indicated  the  operation  with  his  forefinger.  The 
motion  cost  him  his  balance.  He  swung  sharply  about 
and  staggered  toward  the  door.  He  did  not  turn  round 
again,  but  pursued  his  way  toward  it  and  stumbled  out 
into  the  foyer.  The  action  was  exceedingly  ludicrous. 
The  group  of  men  at  the  bar  burst  into  a  laugh.  Every 
one's  attention  reverted  upon  Carey.  He  saw  a  smile 
on  the  face  of  one  of  the  bartenders. 

Simpson's  insult  had  been  vicious.  A  stinging  blow 
from  his  glove  across  Carey's  face  could  not  have  been 
so  effective.  Still  laughing,  the  men  at  the  bar  passed 
him,  his  utter  discomfiture  furnishing  them,  only  too 
obviously,  with  satisfaction.  The  curly-headed,  round- 
eye-glassed  man,  who  had  been  drinking  with  Carey,  rose 
from  the  table  without  even  a  nod  for  good-bye,  and 
joined  them  as  they  left  the  cafe.  Carey  heard  them 
laughing  again  in  the  foyer. 

Merrivale  came  toward  him. 

"You  mustn't  mind  Simpson.  He  didn't  know  what 
he  was  saying.  .  .  .  You'll  pardon  me  if  I  run  along 
with  the  others.  Bonestell  goes  out  my  way.  .  .  .  Good 
night." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  Carey  took  it  mechanically. 
The  other  hurried  out.  Carey  turned  toward  the  bar; 
his  face  was  burning. 

"Champagne,"  he  said,  nodding  at  the  bartender. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


OOON  after  his  return  to  New  York,  the  daily  news- 
&  paper  possessing  the  largest  circulation  in  the  city 
had  ordered  from  Carey  three  of  his  pretty  girl  heads. 
On  the  Sunday  following  the  entertainment  at  the 
Berkeley  Lyceum,  the  first  of  these  appeared.  It  was 
reproduced  in  four  colours  and  occupied  a  whole  front 
page  of  the  newspaper,  dimensions  in  process  work 
which  had,  up  to  that  time,  never  been  attained.  The 
newspaper  advertised  the  fact  widely.  Reproductions 
of  Carey's  work  were  tacked  on  the  corner  news  stands, 
furnished  free  to  news  dealers,  and  were  also  pasted  on 
the  sides  of  the  paper's  delivery  wagons.  In  the  same 
issue  was  published  a  full  page  interview  with  Carey. 
A  reporter  and  an  artist  had  called  upon  him  and  while 
one  asked  him  questions  about  his  life  and  his  pref 
erences  among  types  of  women,  the  other  drew  sketches 
of  him,  at  work  bending  over  his  drawing  table,  posed 
before  his  great  easel,  and  seated  at  his  piano.  The 
timely  appearance  of  this  interview  did  much  to  mitigate 
the  bitterness  of  the  previous  night's  experience  and  the 
sting  of  Simpson's  words.  Again  and  again  Carey  told 
himself  that  it  was  all  professional  jealousy.  Other  men 
could  not  bear  to  stand  by  and  witness  the  triumphant 
progress  of  his  success.  But,  in  spite  of  the  oft-repeated 
reassurance,  he  writhed  at  the  memory. 

282 


THE  AMATEUR  283 


He  was  still  in  bed,  the  morning  paper  strewn  over 
counterpane  and  floor,  the  dishes  of  his  finished  break 
fast  on  a  small  mahogany  table  by  his  pillow,  when 
Springer  shouted  his  name  from  the  studio  below  and 
came  running  upstairs.  Carey  bounded  out  of  bed  to 
meet  him,  and  they  pounded  each  other  on  the  back  in 
their  clumsy  manner  of  expressing  their  affection. 
Springer  was  radiant,  and  Carey  thought  he  never  had 
seen  him  so  handsome,  so  clear  eyed  and  clear  skinned. 
He  was  glowing  with  youth.  The  story  of  the  sudden 
marriage  was  ready  on  his  lips. 

Springer  had  realised,  before  Carey's  return,  that  he 
was  in  love  with  Cecilia.  He  had  had  a  difficult  court 
ship  ;  she  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him  at  first ;  but, 
in  a  curious  way,  they  kept  meeting  each  other.  He 
determined  to  change  her  aversion  for  him;  that  had 
been  the  first  motive  to  actuate  him.  Cecilia's  friend, 
Violet  Burns,  had  thought  of  the  possibility  of  their 
falling  in  love  with  one  another  before  it  occurred  to 
either  of  themselves.  She  had  furthered  the  match  in 
a  quite  efficacious  way.  Springer  was  under  the  delusion 
that  it  was  she  in  whom  he  was  interested.  Since  their 
marriage,  both  he  and  Cecilia  had  marvelled  at  the  clever 
ness  with  which  Violet  Burns  had  thrown  them  together 
without  their  suspicions  being  roused.  One  night  they 
went  to  see  Madam  Butterfly;  it  was  the  Savage  produc 
tion  of  the  opera  in  English,  at  the  Garden  Theatre. 
Springer  had  been  deeply  affected;  Cecilia,  shaken  to 
pieces  by  her  emotion.  On  the  way  home,  he  had,  with 
out  premeditation,  asked  her  to  marry  him.  Not  until 
the  question  sprang  to  his  lips  had  he  realised  he  loved 
her.  With  the  words,  the  miracle  of  love  had  entered 
his  heart.  That  night,  he  could  not  sleep,  nor  did  he  go 
to  bed.  Two  overwhelming  emotions  had  possessed  him 


284  THE  AMATEUR 


alternately:  the  great  happiness  his  love  brought  him; 
the  terrifying  fear  that  he  would  lose  it.  For  weeks  she 
had  refused  to  commit  herself,  and  yet  he  was  buoyed  up 
by  a  conviction  she  returned  his  love. 

The  day  after  New  Year's,  Cecilia  had  found  her  aunt 
dead  in  her  bed.  It  was  a  violent  shock;  she  had  tele 
phoned  Violet  Burns,  who  had  relayed  the  message  to 
Springer.  They  both  had  hurried  out  to  the  Ninety- 
second  Street  apartment,  to  find  her  in  an  alarmingly 
nervous  and  hysterical  condition.  Her  grandparents  in 
Altoona,  both  of  them  past  eighty  years  of  age,  were  her 
only  remaining  relations.  They  could  not  make  so  long 
a  journey.  She  had  felt  utterly  abandoned.  Violet  Burns 
had  urged  her  to  come  to  the  Grenoble  Hotel  and  take  a 
room  adjoining  her  own.  Springer  had  insisted  that  she 
marry  him.  The  day  after  the  funeral,  she  had  consented, 
and  that  night  Springer  had  tried  to  get  in  touch  with 
Carey.  He  had  telephoned  a  half  dozen  times,  and  finally 
had  resorted  to  the  telegrams.  A  week  later,  they  had 
been  married.  They  had  spent  their  honeymoon  in  Al 
toona  visiting  the  old  grandparents.  It  had  been  their 
intention  to  stay  but  a  few  days;  they  had  lingered  for 
nearly  six  weeks. 

Springer  told  his  story  in  short,  rapid  sentences  and 
joyous  exclamations.  He  was  artlessly  radiant,  and 
Carey,  listening  to  his  words  and  watching  him  intently, 
realised  that  he  was  looking  at  a  changed  man,  that  his 
friend  had  emerged  from  what  had  been  an  unlovely 
chrysalis,  into  a  creature  with  wings.  There  was  no 
trace  of  the  gay,  frivolous,  laughing  Don  Juan  left  in 
him;  he  was  an  ardent  lover,  insane  with  the  great  hap 
piness  that  had  come  to  him. 

"God,  Carey!"  he  fervently  exclaimed,  "why  don't 
you  get  married?  It's  the  most  marvellous,  divinely 


THE  AMATEUR  285 


ecstatic  state!  I  begrudge  every  day  I  was  a  bachelor. 
There's  something  about  marriage  that  every  happily 
married  man  recognises;  but  not  one  of  us,  no  matter 
how  eloquent,  can  possibly  explain  what  that  something  is 
to  you  or  any  one  unmarried.  It's  the  same  subtle  some 
thing,  I  suppose,  that  divides  the  dead  from  the  living. 
The  dead  are  all  wise  to  what  death  is;  but,  if  they  really 
have  tried  to  communicate  to  us  by  mediums  in  spiritual 
istic  messages,  they  have  always  found  that  telling  us 
what  we  most  want  to  know  is  impossible.  It  escapes 
them  completely.  If  we  lost  our  terror  of  death  .  .  ." 

Carey  was  not  following.  He  was  wondering  how 
he  should  find  the  courage  to  tell  Springer  of  his  affair 
with  Myra. 

"Celia's  absolutely  the  most  wonderful  girl  in  the 
world,  Carey.  She's  so  open  minded ;  she  understands  a 
man  and  has  a  wonderfully  keen  insight  into  human 
nature.  ...  Do  you  remember  how  old  Tilley  ragged 
me  for  raving  about  her  the  day  she  came  into  our 
studio?" 

Carey  again  was  not  listening.  He  was  speculating  on 
what  would  have  happened  if  he  had  never  confessed 
to  Springer  that  he  had  at  first  lied  to  him  about  the 
girl  who  was  now  his  wife. 

" — and  we're  going  to  live  in  Leonia " 

"Going  to  live  in  Leonia!"  Carey  interrupted. 

"In  Leonia,"  the  other  reiterated,  in  high  good  humour. 
"A  number  of  artists  who  are  married  live  over  there; 
some  of  them  I  know  almost  intimately.  Henry  Lyell 
and  Myron  Davis  both  went  to  Art  School  with  me,  and 
besides  there're  J.  Scott  Franklin,  MacGavin  and  Harry 
Thompson  and  Al  Hamilton,  and  little  Miss  Mary  Dono- 
hoe.  You  couldn't  want  a  better  crowd !  Lyell's  going 
out  to  Arizona  to  work  up  some  Grand  Canyon  studies 


286  THE  AMATEUR 

for  a  big  mural  job  he's  got  on  hand,  and  he's  letting 
Celia  and  me  have  his  house,  furnished,  just  as  it  stands, 
for  fifty  dollars.  We're  going  to  move  in  Monday." 

Carey  shut  his  lips  firmly. 

So  this  was  the  end  of  his  friendship  with  Springer! 
He  not  only  had  supplanted  him  as  his  closest  intimate 
and  confidant  by  getting  married,  but  he  had  to  go  and 
bury  himself  over  the  river  in  New  Jersey  among  a  lot 
of  tame  tabbies  who  sat  round  and  criticised  each  other! 
Carey  felt  intensely  annoyed  and  jealous.  Grimly  he 
determined  Springer  should  not  know  it;  Springer  would 
some  day  remark  to  his  wife  in  great  astonishment  that 
it  had  been  a  long  time  since  he'd  seen  Carey.  That 
should  be  his  revenge. 

"We  want  you  to  come  over  whenever  you  like,  Carey, 
old  man.  I'll  telephone  you  as  soon  as  we  get  settled,  and 
then  you've  got  to  be  our  first  week-end  guest."  He 
paused  a  moment,  regarding  the  other  intently.  "You 
know,  Carey, — you're  looking  awfully  seedy  these  days. 
You're  hitting  it  up  pretty  lively, — you  know  you  are.  I 
wish  to  God  I  had  known  before  I  was  married  what  I 
know  now.  There's  nothing  in  this  sporting  life — nothing. 
Fellows  used  to  tell  me  the  same  thing  once ;  but,  just  as 
you  are  thinking  now,  I  used  to  say  to  myself  that  they 
were  the  ones  who  didn't  know  what  they  were  talking 
about.  But  we  get  wisdom — sooner  or  later — and  I  tell 
you,  Carey,  that  you're  killing  yourself,  drinking  and 
running  round  the  way  you  do." 

Carey  turned  impatiently,  struggling  to  control  his 
fast  rising  anger. 

"You're  a  great  one  to  talk,  Springer!"  he  said  bit 
terly.  "You've  been  the  Czar  of  the  tenderloin  for  I 
don't  know  how  many  years.  Now  you  get  married 
and  begin  to  tell  me  to  quit  doing  the  things  and  going 


THE  AMATEUR  287 


to  places  you  used  to  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days 
in  the  year.  Some  of  these  joints  you  made  pay  by  giv 
ing  'em  a  part  of  your  much  sought  patronage/' 

"I'll  not  quarrel  with  you  about  it,  Carey,"  Springer 
replied.  "What  I've  said  makes  you  sore.  I'm  sorry  I 
was  such  a  rounder;  I'd  like  to  live  the  last  five  or  six 
years  of  my  life  over  again.  I  presume  I  should  have 
resented  similar  advice.  You'll  come  to  my  way  of  think 
ing  some  day, — I  hope  you  will.  Until  then,  we  won't 
talk  about  it." 

Presently  he  went  away,  and  Carey  in  disgust  began  to 
dress.  Nothing  he  possessed,  not  even  his  success,  seemed 
of  any  satisfaction  to  him.  For  the  moment  he  hated 
Myra ;  his  studio  and  its  lavish  appointments  was  a  cum 
bersome  burden ;  he  had  no  friends  that  mattered  to  him. 
Life  no  longer  contained  any  interest  for  him. 

He  telephoned  to  the  garage  and  ordered  his  car 
brought  round.  Alone  he  drove  it  over  to  Long  Island, 
and  twice  was  halted  and  handed  a  summons  for  speed 
ing.  He  spent  the  night  at  a  road  house,  where  he  joined 
a  party  of  motorists  who  were  in  a  mood  as  reckless  as 
his  own. 

The  following  week  he  devoted  to  serious  work.  He 
was  surprised  to  find  how  many  orders  had  accumulated, 
for  he  had  not  made  more  than  two  or  three  of  his  heads 
since  the  first  of  the  year.  Some  of  the  publications, 
whose  commissions  he  had  agreed  to  accept,  were  becom 
ing  impatient.  There  seemed  to  be  an  ever  increasing 
demand  for  his  "heads."  Orders  for  more  came  in 
every  mail.  Among  these  he  picked  and  chose.  An 
swering  the  letters  that  came  to  him  became  a  burden. 
He  formed  the  habit  of  driving  down  in  his  car  to 
the  Plaza  Hotel  and  dictating  his  correspondence  to 


283  THE  AMATEUR 

the  public  stenographer  there.  This  gave  place  to  the 
stenographer's  daily  visit  of  an  hour  to  his  studio.  His 
mail  was  always  interesting,  troublesome  though  the  an 
swering  of  it  might  be.  Besides  the  welcome  communi 
cations  containing  cheques  and  orders  from  first-class 
publishing  houses  and  magazines,  there  was  a  certain 
class  of  letters  he  came  to  term  "pesky  pesters."  Pestif 
erous  was  the  word  he  had  in  mind  when  he  coined  the 
phrase.  These  letters  were  from  small  concerns,  minor 
publications,  commercial  houses  and  hotels,  either  offer 
ing  ridiculously  inadequate  prices  for  his  work,  or  asking 
him  to  quote  his  rates.  Ignoring  them  was  the  only 
escape  he  had  from  their  persistence.  A  certain  portion 
of  his  letters  contained  appeals  for  posters  from  charit 
able  organisations,  and  a  great  many  were  written  by 
women.  The  last  were  of  an  astonishing  variety;  they 
came  from  rich  women  and  poor  women,  wives  of  mil 
lionaires  and  shop  girls.  Invariably  they  offered  to  pose 
for  him.  After  following  up  one  or  two  of  these  from 
idle  curiosity,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  wisdom  lay 
in  meting  out  to  them  the  same  treatment  he  accorded 
to  the  "pesky  pesters." 

The  great  bulk  of  his  correspondence  was  with  manu 
facturers  who  solicited  his  endorsement  of  new  articles 
they  were  about  to  place  on  the  market.  Some  of  these 
asked  his  permission  to  name  the  product  after  him. 
Carey  appreciated  this  was  good  advertising  and  fre 
quently  gave  his  consent.  He  endorsed  pipe  tobacco,  lead 
pencils,  drawing  ink,  Chinese  white,  even  shoes  and  a 
certain  kind  of  glove  he  affected.  In  the  stores  they  sold 
"Carey  Williams  collars,"  "Carey  Williams  perfume," 
"Carey  Williams  golf  jackets"  and  "Carey  Williams 
hats."  There  was  the  "Carey  Williams"  way  for  women 
to  do  their  hair:  the  double  plaits  encircling  the  head; 


THE  AMATEUR  289 


"Carey  Williams  red"  was  a  new  colour;  silks  and  fabrics 
were  made  up  to  match  the  shade  of  Cecilia's  lovely  hair. 
A  new  comic  opera  had  a  pony  ballet  that  was  composed 
of  red-haired  "Carey  Williams  girls." 

It  was  all  exciting,  and  Carey  was  gratified  and  flat 
tered.  His  popularity  was  exhilarating.  He  found,  how 
ever,  a  certain  irritation  in  doing  the  same  work  over 
and  over.  Long  ago  he  had  exhausted  his  ingenuity  in 
thinking  up  different  postures  and  combinations  for  his 
red-haired  girl.  He  drew  her  with  tennis  rackets,  golf 
clubs  and  canoe  paddles,  in  motoring  regalia,  in  sweaters, 
in  sailor  blouses  and  yachting  caps,  in  riding  habits  and 
hunting  costumes,  as  a  Spanish  girl,  a  French  girl,  an 
Italian  girl,  wearing  Indian  beads  and  feathers,  coquet 
ting  in  Dutch  caps  and  military  busbys,  peering  out  of 
carriage  doors,  peering  in  at  cottage  windows,  looking 
up,  looking  down,  looking  over  her  shoulder,  gazing  di 
rectly  from  the  picture.  A  gradual  distaste  for  the  same 
ness  of  the  work  grew  into  a  loathing  for  it. 

In  the  hope  of  providing  a  slight  variation  from  the 
same  features,  the  same  shade  of  hair,  he  persuaded  Myra 
to  pose  for  him.  She  proved  an  excellent  model,  and 
Carey  was  congratulating  himself  on  the  substitution 
when  the  head  he  had  done  of  her  was  returned  by  the 
magazine  for  which  it  was  intended,  with  the  request  that 
the  hair  be  changed  to  red  and  the  "braided"  coils  indi 
cated.  It  was  evident  that  Carey  had  changed  models; 
the  new  one  was,  of  course,  very  beautiful  and  charming, 
but  there  was  some  appealing  quality  in  the  face  of  the 
"Irish  girl"  that  every  one  had  learned  to  love  and  expect. 
Carey  disgustedly  made  the  changes. 

The  adoption  of  a  suggestion  that  Springer  had  given 
him  during  the  earlier  days  of  their  acquaintance  resulted 
in  bringing  in  between  four  and  five  thousand  dollars. 


290  THE  AMATEUR 


Springer  had  counselled  him  to  stipulate,  in  selling  a 
head,  that  the  original  drawing  remain  his  property  and 
that  he  dispose  of  only  the  reproduction  rights  to  the 
magazine  or  publishing  house.  An  exhibition  of  Harry 
Lamberton  Lewis's  water-colours  at  Macbeth's  Galleries 
on  Fifth  Avenue  suggested  to  him  the  idea  of  arranging 
for  an  exhibit  of  his  own.  He  collected  as  many  samples 
of  his  work  as  possible  from  the  various  publishing  houses 
in  New  York  City,  and  of  these  he  selected  about  ninety, 
upon  which  he  spent  a  week  retouching  and  cleaning. 
Late  in  February  the  exhibition  took  place,  and,  during 
the  three  weeks  it  lasted,  he  sold  seventy-four  of  his 
heads  at  prices  ranging  from  fifty  to  a  hundred  dollars 
apiece.  He  spent  the  money  at  once  in  buying  an  electric 
brougham  for  Myra. 

Myra  was  a  constant  source  of  expense  to  him.  He 
could  retain  her  affection  only  by  elaborate  presents,  and, 
as  time  went  on,  he  had  to  provide  a  more  and  more 
costly  variety  to  evoke  any  expression  of  gratitude  or 
pleasure.  Even  though  he  was  as  much  infatuated  as 
ever,  and  eagerly  gathered  up  the  crumbs  of  genuine  feel 
ing  she  occasionally  let  fall,  he  was  far  from  being  en 
tirely  deluded  by  her  subterfuges.  When  he  came  to 
realise  that  there  was  no  possibility  of  her  ever  learning 
to  love  him  as  she  had  loved  Springer,  he  frankly  ac 
knowledged  to  himself  that  his  "leg  was  being  pulled." 
When  he  had  had  enough  of  the  affair,  he  determined  he 
would  terminate  the  liaison  abruptly  and  leave  Myra  to 
go  back  to  the  stage.  He  was  perfectly  willing  to  be 
played  as  a  sucker  only  as  long  as  there  was  any  fun 
in  it  for  himself. 

Myra  enjoyed  the  intimate  little  dinners  Carey  fre 
quently  gave  at  his  studio.  There  were  sometimes  six, 
more  often  ten  or  a  dozen  persons  at  these  affairs.  Myra 


THE  AMATEUR  291 


provided  the  girls  and  Carey  the  dinner,  the  wine  and 
the  men.  Gregory  Shilling  and  Mark  Harrison  were  con 
stant  guests  and  so  was  the  young  actor,  Gerald  Crofts, 
whom  Myra  had  introduced.  Crofts  was  independently 
rich  and  owned  a  car  of  the  same  make  as  Carey's.  After 
dinner  the  party  would  crowd  into  the  two  motors  and 
drive  out  to  Yonkers,  to  some  road  house  on  Long 
Island,  or  to  Scarsdale  where  Croft's  married  sister 
lived.  The  roads  were  in  bad  condition,  the  ruts  frozen 
solid;  but  the  drivers  vied  with  one  another  in  reckless 
ness.  After  one  of  these  trips,  Carey  was  generally 
obliged  to  lay  up  his  car  in  the  repair  shop  for  two  or 
three  days,  sometimes  longer.  This  inconvenience  led 
him  to  get  another  automobile.  From  considering  a 
twenty-five  to  twenty-eight  hundred  dollar  purchase,  he 
progressed  by  easy  mental  stages  to  the  conclusion  that 
a  seven  thousand  dollar  foreign  car  was  the  most  eco 
nomical  and  satisfactory  in  the  long  run.  The  arrival 
of  a  letter  from  Joe  Downer  announcing  the  sale  of  his 
real  estate  at  home,  and  a  credit  of  nine  thousand,  two 
hundred  dollars  resulting  therefrom  in  a  local  bank, 
helped  him  materially  to  this  decision. 

The  new  motor  was  an  intense  joy  to  Carey.  It  was 
one  of  the  low  hung  cars  that  were  just  coming  into 
vogue,  and  attracted  attention  wherever  he  drove  it;  its 
colour  scheme  of  bright  yellow  and  crimson  made  it 
additionally  conspicuous.  Carey  keenly  enjoyed  the  sen 
sation  he  created  when,  with  Myra  in  a  fetching  motoring 
costume  beside  him,  he  joined  the  disjointed  chain  of 
motor-driven  vehicles  and  carriages  on  Fifth  Avenue  and 
followed  the  slowly  moving  procession  until  it  melted 
mysteriously  away. 

One  Sunday,  Carey  took  the  car  alone  over  the  Fort 
Lee  ferry  and  visited  Springer  and  Cecilia  in  Leonia.  He 


292  THE  AMATEUR 


was  in  an  ill-temper  as  he  drove  the  heavy  automobile 
over  the  hard,  rutty  roads  and  was  obliged  frequently  to 
stop  to  inquire  his  way.  Leonia  was  as  bare  and  cheerless 
as  the  flat  palm  of  a  giant's  hand.  Winter  lay  malignantly 
across  the  landscape,  oppressive,  grey,  relentless.  It  was 
biting  cold  and  snow  would  soon  be  falling. 

Carey  found  the  house  at  last,  perched  on  the  side  of 
a  hill.  It  was  small  and  rambling,  of  a  dingy  whiteness, 
with  storm  glass  partitions  following  the  line  of  the 
porch.  The  garden  was  a  twisted  heap  of  brambles ;  piles 
of  soiled  snow  marked  where  the  drifts  had  gathered;  a 
broken  brick  path  wound  its  way  up  to  the  steps  of  the 
porch  from  the  swing  gate  in  the  picket  fence. 

Springer  and  Cecilia  appeared  glad  enough  to  see  him, 
hauling  him  in,  wringing  his  hand,  shouting  his  name. 
But  Carey  felt  their  welcome  was  forced.  They  were 
cordial  because  they  wanted  to  be,  but  they  weren't  really 
glad  to  see  him.  Whatever  had  been  the  ties  of  friend 
ship  between  himself  and  Cecilia,  between  himself  and 
Springer,  were  broken  now;  the  common  ground  on 
which  heretofore  they  had  met  was  gone.  There  was 
something  condescending  in  their  attitudes  toward  him; 
something  "sweetly  cordial" ;  Carey  felt  that  each  wished 
to  impress  him  with  the  fact  that  they  had  entirely  for 
gotten  the  days  of  their  old  separate  association  with 
him  when  it  was  he  that  had  been  their  closest  intimate, 
that  the  memory  of  moments  and  incidents  in  their  past 
friendships  with  him  which  he  still  cherished  and  happily 
recalled,  they  now  had  ceased  to  remember.  They  had 
formed  a  comradeship  of  their  own,  one  much  deeper 
and  more  wonderful  than  theirs  had  ever  been  with  Carey. 
He  could  not  comprehend  the  perfect  understanding  they 
had  reached ! 

They  insisted  he  should  stay  to  dinner ;  they  would  not 


THE  AMATEUR  293 


hear  of  his  returning  to  the  city  without  sitting  down 
with  them;  they  refused  to  listen  to  his  objections.  Care^ 
soon  realised  that  his  misgivings  as  to  the  wisdom  of 
accepting  their  invitation  were  justified.  Springer  was 
irritatingly  smug  about  his  happiness.  He  had  changed 
astonishingly.  His  old  infectious  recklessness  was  gone; 
his  rash  impulsiveness  was  curbed;  he  was  sobered;  his 
charm,  his  youth,  his  buoyant  adolescence  had  lost  their 
bloom.  His  supreme  self-complacency,  his  complete  satis 
faction  with  his  wedded  happiness  was  provoking.  While 
there  was  no  reference  made  to  the  topic  on  which  they 
had  recently  disagreed,  Carey  sensed  in  his  attitude  a 
desire  to  show  him  that  he  was  in  the  right.  Cecilia, 
however,  impressed  him  as  more  interesting.  She,  too, 
had  changed  very  definitely;  she  had  become  more  mel 
low,  richer,  riper,  rounder.  There  was  no  trace  of  em 
barrassment  in  her  greeting,  nor  did  there  remain  any 
suggestion  of  her  old,  shy  manner.  In  fact,  she  Chris 
tian-named  Carey  at  once,  but  he  thought  he  recognised 
in  her  manner  toward  him,  that  of  the  woman  who  has 
wedded  the  man  of  her  choice  and  is  at  pains  to  be  kind 
and  considerate  to  her  discarded  lover.  She  was  a  trifle 
too  solicitous  and  attentive. 

The  inside  of  the  house  they  had  rented  from  Henry 
Lyell  struck  Carey  as  extremely  commonplace,  and  they 
seemed  equally  so.  He  marvelled  at  the  change  in  both 
of  them.  Cecilia  had  loved  the  world  of  living,  breathing 
people,  where  every  day  some  event  of  vital  interest 
occurred  to  quicken  the  imagination,  give  zest  to  one's 
existence.  Springer  had  been  all  eagerness  for  such  liv 
ing;  he  had  set  the  pace  for  the  pack  to  follow.  Now, 
Carey  found  him  with  one  of  Cecilia's  aprons  tied  high 
up  under  his  arms,  slowly  cranking  an  ice-cream  freezer 
while  his  wife  sprinkled  flour  in  the  bottom  of  the  pan 


294  THE  AMATEUR 


that  had  held  the  roast,  and  scraped  it  into  paste  for  the 
^ravy.  Carey  sat  on  a  hard,  wooden  chair  in  the  hot 
kitchen  while  dinner  was  being  prepared.  Steam  poured 
from  under  the  lids  of  several  saucepans  on  the  stove, 
and  the  smell  of  boiling  vegetables  choked  the  heated 
air.  Springer  shouted  at  him  above  the  creaking  of  the 
ice-cream  freezer,  and  Cecilia  continually  passed  between 
them  as  she  needed  one  thing  after  another  from  the 
closet  beside  him.  Dinner  was  a  succession  of  the  proverb 
ial  comments  of  all  newly-married  couples.  Carey  re 
membered  some  of  their  exact  phrases  as  legends  to  pic 
tures  in  Mirth.  Cecilia  related  a  long  story  about  the  day 
Mark  Harrison  had  come  to  dinner,  and  the  steak  she  was 
broiling  caught  on  fire  and  nearly  burnt  the  house  down. 
Springer  asserted  the  hot  biscuits  Cecilia  made  as  quite 
equal  to  the  ones  his  mother  baked  in  the  old  home  in 
Waterbury.  Carey  wondered  what  they  would  have 
thought  had  they  suspected  how  ridiculous  he  thought 
them.  They  were  typical  "newly-weds,"  dismally  unin 
teresting  to  any  one  save  themselves. 

Cecilia  cleared  after  each  course,  Springer  offering  to 
help  and  being  firmly  refused,  as  such  assistance  was  con 
sidered  unmanly  by  his  wife. 

"We  had  an  awful  fight  at  first,"  Springer  confided 
to  Carey,  "over  washing  the  dishes.  Celia  refused  point 
blank  to  let  me  do  it,  and  I  was  equally  firm.  I  couldn't 
have  her  out  there  slaving  away  while  I  sat  in  here  com 
fortably  smoking.  We  finally  compromised ;  she  does  the 
washing  and  I  wipe.  We  have  regular  races  to  see 
whether  I  can  keep  up  with  her.  She's  as  quick  as 
lightning.  I'm  going  to  get  a  Swede  as  soon  as  we  make 
another  payment  on  the  lot." 

They  were  eager  to  tell  Carey  about  the  bungalow 
they  intended  to  build.  Violet  Burns  had  a  brother  who 


THE  AMATEUR  295 


was  an  architect;  he  had  drawn  the  plans  for  them  for 
nothing.  They  got  out  the  blueprints  and  spread  them 
out  on  the  dining-room  table,  pushing  back  the  silver-ware 
and  the  soiled  dinner  dishes,  weighing  down  the  curling 
edges  of  the  heavy  paper  with  the  salt  and  pepper  casters. 

See,  here  was  the  ground  floor  plan :  here  was  the  long, 
wide  living-room  running  the  whole  length  of  the  house; 
the  big  fireplace  was  to  be  here,  windows  there  and  there. 
It  was  all  to  be  so  original :  there  was  to  be  no  entrance 
hall- way ;  there  was  to  be  no  dining-room ;  there  were  to 
be  French  windows  opening  on  to  the  garden ;  there  was 
to  be  a  pergola  and  a  red  tile  flooring. 

"How  very  original!"  Carey  murmured,  but  they  didn't 
catch  his  sarcasm. 

"And  you  must  walk  over  and  see  the  lot,"  Springer 
said  enthusiastically. 

But  here  Carey  balked.  He  was  sorry  he  couldn't 
stay  longer, — he  had  to  get  back  to  the  city, — he  had  a 
date, — 'he'd  be  over  again  soon.  He  clambered  back  into 
his  powerful  car  with  a  sense  of  relief  and  revengeful  sat 
isfaction  that  they  must  return  to  their  dish-washing 
without  any  of  the  help  he  felt  sure  they  had  expected 
him  to  contribute. 

It  was  on  the  ferry  boat  on  the  way  home  that  he  met 
Doctor  Floherty.  They  had  not  seen  each  other  for  a 
year,  not  since  their  chance  meeting  on  the  street  soon 
after  Carey  had  begun  to  live  at  The  Rembrandt  Studios. 
The  Doctor  was  now  in  charge  of  the  laboratory  at  St. 
Vincent's  Hospital.  He  was  satisfied  with  his  work  and 
was  well  contented.  He  was  engaged  in  making  some 
interesting  experiments  in  cultures,  for  which  his  duties 
in  connection  with  the  hospital  work  allowed  him  time. 
He  was  eager  to  have  Carey  tell  about  himself ;  his  suc 
cess  seemed  to  the  Doctor  a  marvellous  achievement,  and 


296  THE  AMATEUR 


he  wanted  to  hear  Carey's  own  account  of  it.  His  simple 
admiration,  the  interest  and  almost  deference  he  showed, 
went  far  to  dispel  the  unsatisfactory  feeling  the  visit  to 
Leonia  had  left  behind.  Carey  thawed  under  the  warmth 
of  the  Doctor's  friendliness.  He  decided  he  liked  him 
very  much ;  they  promised  they  were  going  to  see  a  great 
deal  more  of  one  another. 

In  answer  to  his  inquiries,  the  Doctor  told  him  that 
he  had  long  ago  left  the  Fillmores.  Durrant  and  Lambert 
were  the  only  two  of  the  old  crowd  who  still  lived  there; 
a  cheap  class  of  young  clerks  from  the  American  To 
bacco  Company  filled  the  house  and  there  were  also  some 
Filipinos.  The  doctor  was  living  on  One  Hundred  and 
Seventh  Street,  with  some  graduates  of  his  medical 
fraternity. 

When  the  boat  bumped  its  way  into  the  ferry  slip  on  the 
New  York  side,  Carey  insisted  that  the  doctor  should 
get  into  his  car  and  be  driven  wherever  he  wanted  to  go. 
Floherty  had  been  playing  bridge  in  Englewood,  but  had 
been  obliged  to  stop  early  in  order  to  get  home  and  dress 
for  a  tea  his  aunt  was  giving  at  the  Buckingham  on  Fifth 
Avenue. 

As  the  car  rolled  out  into  the  ferry  depot,  Carey 
stopped  it  at  one  side,  out  of  the  way  of  the  traffic,  and, 
getting  out,  went  back  to  the  news  stand  for  a  couple  of 
boxes  of  his  favourite  cigarettes.  He  was  feeling  for  the 
change  in  his  pocket  when  his  eye  fell  upon  a  magazine 
displayed  upon  the  counter.  It  arrested  his  attention  as 
if  he  had  suddenly  seen  a  thief's  hand  reaching  for  his 
purse.  It  was  Overman's,  and  the  design  upon  the  cover 
might  have  been  his  own  work,  one  of  his  pretty-girl 
heads, — only  it  was  not!  It  was  an  excellent  imitation, 
the  same  features,  the  same  double  plaits  about  the  head, 
the  same  dull  red  shade  of  hair.  Examining  it  closely, 


THE  AMATEUR  297 


Carey  could  see  the  texture  of  the  strawboard  showing 
faintly  in  the  screen  of  the  black  plate.  It  was  signed, 
boldly  and  distinctly,  "Mason  Edward  Camp." 

With  amused,  contemptuous  interest,  and  yet  feeling 
annoyed  and  angry,  Carey  bought  the  magazine  and  gave 
it  to  Doctor  Floherty. 

"  'Imitation  is  the  sincerest  flattery/  they  say,  Doc," 
he  remarked,  climbing  into  his  seat  beneath  the  steering 
gear,  "but  can  you  beat  that  for  unmitigated  nerve!" 

Indignation  was  still  smouldering  within  him  as  he 
drove  Floherty  down  to  One  Hundred  and  Seventh 
Street.  The  doctor  and  his  three  friends  lived  in  an 
apartment  on  the  ground  floor.  He  prevailed  upon  Carey 
to  come  in  with  him  and  have  a  "nip,"  for  a  sharp  wind 
had  sprung  up  and  their  ears  were  tingling.  In  the  tiny 
parlour,  on  a  convertible  couch,  they  found  one  of  Flo- 
herty's  house-mates  asleep.  His  coat  was  over  the  back 
of  a  chair,  his  slippers  had  fallen  from  his  white-socked 
feet,  the  Sunday  papers  lay  in  scattered  sheets  upon  the 
floor.  The  sleeper's  head  had  slid  from  the  hard  cushion 
over  the  edge  of  the  couch  and  hung  down,  resting  upon 
the  sharp  wooden  support  eight  inches  below  the  level 
of  the  seat.  His  mouth  was  open  and  he  was  snoring  in 
prolonged,  raucous  inhalations. 

Floherty  began  to  laugh. 

"It's  old  Mac,"  he  said,  "as  good  a  scout  as  was  ever 
made.  Donald  Graham  MacTavish — can  you  match  the 
Scotch  of  that?" 

He  raised  his  hand  and  brought  it  smartly  down  upon 
the  white  sole  of  his  friend's  foot. 

"Hey  there,  Mac — wake  up !"  he  commanded.  "Wake 
up!  You're  strangling  yourself." 

MacTavish  started,  made  an  effort  to  sit  up,  and  rolled 
ignominiously  on  to  the  floor. 


298  THE  AMATEUR 

Floherty  and  Carey  shouted.  The  subject  of  their 
mirth  gathered  himself  up  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
couch,  rubbing  his  curly,  sandy  head,  blinking  first  at 
one  and  then  the  other  of  them.  Presently  he  joined  in 
their  laughter. 

He  was  a  pleasant- faced  Scot,  with  racial  traits  evident 
in  speech  and  feature.  Across  the  bridge  of  his  nose  and 
beneath  his  eyes  ran  a  broad  band  of  freckles.  He  had 
a  comical  expression,  and  Carey  watched  him,  amused 
and  interested,  as  he  struggled  to  throw  off  the  last  of 
his  drowsiness,  blinking  and  smiling  good  naturedly  at 
them. 

Floherty  produced  some  Scotch  whiskey  and  Mac- 
Tavish  suggested  a  toddy.  They  all  went  out  into  the 
kitchen,  and  Carey  sat  on  the  wash  tubs  while  MacTavish, 
with  the  manner  of  an  adept  in  such  matters,  began  to 
putter  with  saucepans  and  crush  lump  sugar  in  a  drug 
gist's  mortar. 

It  reminded  Carey  of  the  early,  grey  mornings  during 
his  first  summer  in  New  York,  when  Durrant,  Jerry  Hart, 
the  Doctor  and  himself  used  to  get  their  breakfast  in  the 
Fillmore's  basement  kitchen  preparatory  to  their  all-day 
visit  to  Van  Cortlandt  Park.  Floherty  and  he  recalled 
various  incidents  of  those  days,  and  presently  they  were 
in  high  spirits. 

The  hot  Scotch  was  pronounced  a  great  success,  and 
MacTavish  was  pressed  into  making  another.  Under  the 
influence  of  the  two,  Floherty  decided  that  it  would  be 
impossible  to  waste  the  afternoon  at  a  tea  at  the  Buck 
ingham.  Carey  suggested  they  all  get  into  the  car  and 
drive  out  to  The  Crow's  Nest,  a  road  house  just  beyond 
Harlem  that  he  and  Springer  had  visited  on  the  first 
night  of  their  acquaintance.  They  would  be  certain  to 
find  a  lively  crowd  there,  as  the  Sunday  liquor  law  was 


THE  AMATEUR  299 


never  enforced,  although  the  bar  presented  a  closed 
appearance.  Both  Floherty  and  MacTavish  were  at  once 
enthusiastic  over  the  idea,  and  a  lively  scramble  followed 
while  they  both  changed  into  other  clothes. 

Carey  drove  them  out  in  less  than  twenty  minutes,  but 
they  found  the  place  less  gay  than  they  had  expected. 
It  was  pleasant,  however,  to  sit  around  the  great  stone 
fireplace  in  the  tap  room  and  watch  the  bright  flames 
lick  their  way  up  the  chimney  while  more  mixtures  of 
hot  Scotch  were  brewed  and  drunk. 

Some  remark  about  a  woman  by  MacTavish  reminded 
Carey  of  Myra.  He  had  never  taken  any  of  his  friends 
with  him  to  see  her,  but  now  this  appeared  an  excellent 
thing  to  do.  He  considered  telephoning  at  first,  but  he 
felt  fairly  certain  he  would  find  her  at  home. 

"Come  on,  you  fellows,"  he  said,  jumping  to  his  feet, 
"I've  got  an  idea !  We'll  leave  this  place  and  go  to  an 
other  where  we'll  have  a  much  better  time !" 

They  accepted  his  leadership  cheerfully  and  got  into 
their  great  coats  again  with  much  boisterous  struggling. 
Carey  whirled  them  through  Harlem,  down  Broadway, 
back  into  town.  He  loved  these  mad  dashes ;  they  thrilled 
him  as  nothing  else  he  did ;  constantly  he  played  a  reckless 
game  with  policemen  at  crossings  and  on  motor  cycles. 
If  he  evaded  them,  slipped  by,  escaping  their  vigilance, 
he  won  the  game ;  if  he  failed,  they  won,  and  arrest  might 
follow.  Recklessness,  daring  and  luck,  all  had  favoured 
him,  and  within  the  city  limits  he  had  only  once  been  ar 
rested.  To-day  it  was  especially  exciting,  for  the  prom 
ised  snow  had  begun  to  fall,  the  streets  were  wet  and 
slippery,  and  the  car  skidded  treacherously.  The  nar 
rower  the  margin  by  which  an  accident  was  averted,  the 
more  thrilling  it  became. 

It  was  ten  minutes  before  six  when  Carey  stopped  in 


300  THE  AMATEUR 


front  of  Myra's  house.  Lotta,  the  capped-and-aproned 
coloured  maid,  let  them  in,  and  Carey  was  delighted  to 
learn  that  Myra  was  at  home.  The  two  physicians  passed 
into  the  tiny,  dainty  reception  room,  and  Carey  ran  down 
the  hall  to  Myra's  own  room. 

He  found  her  reclining  in  an  upholstered  arm-chair, 
her  beslippered  feet  propped  upon  the  bed,  while,  over 
the  back  of  the  chair,  her  lovely  hair  was  spread,  like  a 
mermaid's  floating  in  the  water.  Lotta  had  been  brushing 
it  while  Myra  turned  rapidly  the  pages  of  a  notorious 
novel.  She  greeted  Carey  more  affectionately  than  usual. 

"Hello,  kiddo,"  she  said,  "I'm  glad  you've  turned  up 
at  last.  I  was  beginning  to  be  afraid  you'd  thrown  me 
down.  It's  been  more  'n  a  week  since  you've  been  here." 

"Do  you  want  to  go  on  a  party,  Myra?"  Carey  said 
eagerly,  sitting  down  on  the  arm  of  her  chair. 

"Careful,  Carey,"  Myra  protested,  pushing  him  gently 
away.  "Lotta' s  got  that  all  nicely  brushed!"  She  re 
garded  him  a  moment  with  a  new  thought  in  her  mind. 

"How  much  've  you  been  drinking?" 

"Drinking!"  Carey  answered,  pettishly.  "What  are 
you  talking  about?  I've  had  about  two  drinks!" 

She  continued  to  study  him  a  moment,  and  then,  as  if 
satisfied  that  he  was  speaking  the  truth,  she  asked: 

"What  kind  of  a  party?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Carey  answered  vaguely.  "I've 
brought  a  couple  of  friends  along,  and  I  thought  you 
might  be  able  to  scare  up  two  girls,  and  we'd  all  go  to 
dinner  some  place." 

Myra's  eyes  widened. 

"That  sounds  good  to  me.  Cora  rang  up  this  after 
noon  and  asked  me  what  was  doing  to-night.  She  wanted 
me  to  go  to  a  'sacred  concert.' ' 

Myra's  silvery  laugh  rang  out  musically. 


THE  AMATEUR  301 


"There's  Cora's  sister — but  she's  got  a  beau.'*  She 
reflected  a  moment,  and  then  clapped  her  hands  to 
gether  joyfully. 

"Mary!  Mary  Brown!  The  very  girl.  Oh — o — o!" 
Myra  laughed  again.  "She's  lots  of  fun!" 

"She  doesn't  sound  very  interesting,"  Carey  said,  du 
biously. 

Myra  rolled  her  eyes  and  made  a  little  "o"  of  a  mouth. 

"Wait  till  you  get  her  started,  once !"  she  warned  him. 
"You're  a  duck,  Carey, — I  love  parties  like  this,  and 
['ve  been  awfully  lonely  to-day.  Are  your  friends  amus 
ing?" 

Carey  carried  the  story  of  the  contemplated  party  to 
MacTavish  and  Floherty  while  Myra  telephoned  to  the 
two  girls  and  dressed.  The  three  of  them  were  in  a 
lilarious  mood — Carey  had  found  the  ingredients  for 
some  cocktails  in  the  sideboard  in  the  dining  room — when 
Vtyra's  friends  arrived.  They  rode  up  in  a  taxi  and  pres 
ently  Carey  was  mixing  cocktails  for  all  six  of  them, 
while  they  argued  about  where  they  should  go  to  dine. 

Myra's  friends  were  all  that  Carey  hoped  for  or  could 
expect.  One  of  them,  Mary  Brown,  was  very  dainty  and 
prettily  made,  exquisitely  dressed  in  a  vivid  green  silk, 
fur-trimmed,  gold  embroidered  street  suit;  she  wore 
her  very  rich  auburn  hair  in  the  "turban  swirl"  that  was 
then  an  advanced  fashion.  Cora  was  rather  tall  and 
willowy,  with  dark  eyes  in  soft  shadows,  a  nose  a  trifle 
retrousse,  and  a  warm,  fine  skin,  olive-hued  and  almost 
transparent.  She  wore  a  three-piece  tailor  suit  of  a 
wonderful  taupe  shade,  the  lines  of  which  were  long  and 
graceful,  strikingly  setting  off  her  splendid  figure.  But 
Myra,  in  black  velvet  and  white  furs,  with  a  broad 
Gainsborough  hat  trimmed  in  the  same  fur,  was  more 


302  THE  AMATEUR 


beautiful  and  even  more  fashionably  gowned  than  the 
others  in  their  more  elaborate  costumes.  Carey  thought 
he  had  never  seen  three  such  superb  women. 

Myra  insisted  that  she  was  ravenous,  and  declined  to 
waste  so  sharp  an  appetite  on  anything  but  the  most  care 
fully  prepared  and  seasoned  food.  It  was  this  that  de 
cided  them  in  favour  of  the  old  Martin's  on  Ninth 
Street.  All  agreed  that  no  such  cooking  was  to  be  had 
elsewhere  in  the  city.  While  the  party  were  putting  on 
their  coats  and  wraps,  Carey  telephoned  for  a  table. 

It  was  a  biting  cold  night.  Underfoot,  on  window 
copings,  roofs  and  ledges,  wherever  a  surface  presented 
itself,  the  heavy  snow  gathered.  As  Carey  drove  the  car 
along  the  broad  roadways  in  the  Park,  he  could  hardly 
see  before  him.  The  flying  particles  of  snow  were  swiftly 
swept  into  his  eyes  which  he  was  forced  to  keep  pain 
fully  squinted;  the  wet  flakes  quickly  gathering  on  the 
glass  of  the  wind-shield  had  already  rendered  it  opaque. 
Myra,  in  a  great  furry  bear  skin,  cuddled  close  against 
his  arm,  while  the  others  in  the  tonneau  laughed  and 
screamed  in  exaggerated  mirth.  As  they  skirted  the  Mall, 
the  double  row  of  arc  lights  on  either  side  cast  toward 
them  a  dull,  steady  radiance  like  the  reflection  of  bull's- 
eye  lanterns  through  frosted  window  glass.  Fifth  Ave 
nue  was  deserted,  a  long,  vacant  lane,  its  white  vista 
broken  here  and  there  by  a  solitary  taxi-cab  or  a  hurrying, 
bundled  figure.  An  occasional  bar  of  light  beneath  a 
half-drawn  window  curtain  would  give  evidence  of  cheer 
and  occupancy  within  the  tall,  forbidding  mansions  that 
flanked  the  upper  part  of  the  street.  Lower  down,  hotels 
and  clubs  were  brightly  lighted,  and  before  the  churches, 
the  sextons,  armed  with  brooms,  were  sweeping  away 
the  snow  from  steps  and  walks. 

As  Carey  swung  the  car  into  Ninth  Street,  he  was  sud- 


THE  AMATEUR  303 


denly  obliged  to  put  all  his  strength  into  his  emergency 
brake  and  his  full  weight  upon  the  foot-brake.  A  man 
bad  started  to  make  the  crossing,  just  as  Carey's  powerful 
icadlights  flashed  upon  him  when  the  car  began  to  turn. 
In  his  haste  to  regain  the  sidewalk,  the  pedestrian's  foot 
slipped  and  he  sprawled  helplessly  on  the  snow-covered 
Davement.  Fortunately,  because  of  the  number  of  people 
ic  carried,  Carey  had  slowed  down.  The  heavy  car,  its 
wheels  arrested  in  an  iron  grip,  skidded  violently  on  the 
slippery  surface  of  the  street,  swung  completely  around, 
and  brought  up  sharply  against  the  curbing  with  an 
ominous  crack.  The  group  in  back  was  flung  roughly 
against  the  inside  of  the  tonneau;  one  of  the  girls 
screamed.  Carey,  glancing  angrily  at  the  cause  of  the 
mishap,  who  still  squatted  upon  his  knees  on  the  sidewalk, 
dlled  his  engine  and,  squirming  out  from  behind  the 
steering  wheel,  swung  himself  over  the  side  of  the  car 
and  leaped  to  the  street.  The  damage,  as  far  as  he  could 
determine,  was  not  as  serious  as  he  feared.  Two  of  the 
spokes  on  the  rear  wheel  were  split,  but  the  fractures  were 
not  bad  enough  to  prevent  them  proceeding  at  once.  He 
rose  to  his  feet,  reassuring  the  others.  There  was  a  gen 
eral  laugh  of  relief. 

"Pretty  lucky!" 

"Oh,  my  ribs !    I  thought  I  was  a  goner !" 

"Cora,  you  mashed  me  .  .  ." 

"That  was  a  narrow  squeak." 

"It's  a  good  thing  you  slowed  up." 

"Why,  we  might  all  've  been  killed !" 

"Kiss  me  quick,  somebody !    I'm  awful  lucky." 

A  shrill  clamour  broke  out  from  all  of  them.  Carey 
cranked  his  engine  and  struggled  back  into  his  seat. 
Slowly  he  released  his  clutch,  and  the  great  car  jerked  and 


304  THE  AMATEUR 


rolled  out  into  the  Avenue,  Carey  swinging  it  with  diffi 
culty  into  Ninth  Street. 

"That's  the  satisfaction  of  having  a  good  car,"  he  said 
to  Myra.  "A  cheap,  American  make  would  have  been 
smashed  to  kindling  wood." 

Floherty  leaned  over  to  him  from  the  back  seat. 

"Do  you  know  who  that  was?  Who  that  man  was 
you  nearly  ran  over?" 

"Ran  over?"  Carey  protested.  "I  saved  his  life,  and 
it  will  cost  me  a  couple  of  hundred  dollars!" 

"That  was  old  Blanchard,"  Floherty  said,  disregarding 
Carey's  digression.  "You  know,  Anna's  father,  whom  we 
knew  at  the  Fillmore's." 

"I  wish  I'd  given  him  a  bump,"  Carey  answered, 
bringing  the  car  to  a  standstill  in  front  of  the  cafe.  "I 
would  have,  if  I  had  known  who  he  was,"  he  added.  "He 
always  was  in  the  way." 

They  got  out  of  the  motor  and  trooped  up  the  stairs 
into  the  brightly  lighted  foyer.  A  rush  of  appetising 
odours  met  them,  the  rich  smell  of  roasting  meats,  the 
savoury  fragrance  of  rare  culinary  combinations,  the  in 
viting  aroma  of  French  cooking.  Myra  clapped  her 
hands,  and,  in  the  entrance  hall  way,  pulled  Carey's  head 
down  and  suddenly  kissed  him.  It  was  little  more  than 
a  swift  touch,  like  a  child's  kiss,  yet  it  sent  the  blood 
rushing  into  Carey's  face.  It  was  such  evidence  of 
Myra's  capricious  affection  that  made  her  seem  to  him 
infinitely  charming,  infinitely  dear. 

He  was  in  gay  spirits  as  he  led  the  way  to  the  round 
table  at  one  side  that  had  been  reserved.  The  party's 
entrance  created  the  stir  among  the  other  diners  he  had 
come  to  find  so  agreeable.  There  was  not  a  person  in  the 
room  who  did  not  follow  with  his  eyes  their  progress  to 
their  table. 


THE  AMATEUR  305 


Carey  ordered  elaborately,  starting  off  with  a  choice 
collection  of  hors  d'&uvres  and  selecting  an  old  vintage 
of  champagne  to  be  properly  chilled.  A  double  order  of 
cocktails  was  served.  This  stimulant  on  top  of  the  hot 
Scotches  and  the  drinks  he  had  imbibed  during  the  after 
noon  produced  the  feeling  of  excitement  and  hilarity 
he  so  keenly  craved.  MacTavish  gave  evidence  of  being 
already  slightly  drunk;  he  was  leaning  conspicuously 
over  Cora's  shoulder,  murmuring  in  her  ear,  while  the 
girl  laughed  shrilly,  telling  him  audibly  to  behave. 

A  report,  the  breaking  of  a  window  glass,  a  concus 
sion  that  shocked  him  violently,  brought  Carey,  half 
staggering,  to  his  feet,  a  wild  feeling  of  alarm  possessing 
him.  Other  men  had  risen ;  Myra  began  to  scream,  catch 
ing  his  arm,  sinking  to  her  knees  upon  the  floor  beside 
him.  There  was  a  rush  of  human  voices,  the  clatter  of 
broken  crockery,  a  sudden  swift  movement  upon  the  part 
of  the  standing  figures.  In  bewilderment  Carey  gazed 
about,  trying  to  understand  what  had  happened. 

Simultaneously  with  the  second  shot,  he  caught  sight 
of  the  malignant  face  and  the  aimed  revolver  through  the 
glass  partition  of  the  cafe.  In  that  brief  moment  he 
remembered  the  side  entrance,  the  short  flight  of  stairs 
from  the  street,  the  glass  door,  opening  directly  into  the 
restaurant,  that  was  never  used.  A  roar  of  noise  as 
sailed  him,  the  shouts  of  the  men  drowning  the  shrill 
bleating  of  the  women.  Some  one  bumped  roughly 
against  him,  knocking  him  back  into  his  chair. 

It  was  Blanchard's  fourth  shot  that  was  most  effec 
tive.  Carey  felt  it  strike  him.  A  sudden,  utter  weakness 
overcame  him;  his  head  fell  forward  among  the  dishes 
and  glassware  upon  the  table. 

Noise — noise — noise.  Round  him  whirled  red  and 
black  chaos.  There  were  blinding  lights  and  warm, 


3o6  THE  AMATEUR 


sticky  blood ;  there  was  blood  all  over  him.  Then  came 
pain,  swift,  sharp,  piercing.  Some  one  was  troubling 
him;  he  was  being  moved;  they  were  torturing  him. 
Quick,  hurting  fingers  played  upon  him,  twisting,  press 
ing,  pulling.  Once  he  cried  out.  Blood  filled  his  throat, 
all  but  strangling  him.  A  cough  racked  his  body.  Then 
there  was  darkness  for  what  seemed  a  long  time. 
Through  the  blackness  that  surrounded  and  weighed  him 
down,  continually  he  heard  a  querulous  old  voice,  brok 
enly  accusing  him: 

"He's  a  practised  seducer !  He's  a  menace  to  Society ! 
He  ruined  my  daughter." 

There  were  more  lights  and  more  voices.  A  deafening 
roar  of  hideous  noise.  Then  they  lifted  him.  The  sound 
of  the  shifting,  struggling  feet,  the  warning,  authoritative 
voice  giving  directions  reached  his  dimming  conscious 
ness.  A  violent  pain  up  along  his  back  and  neck  gripped 
him. 

Swiftly  the  darkness  rushed  down  upon  him  again. 


PART    THREE 


PART   THREE 
CHAPTER  I 


THE  hot  sunshine  poured  in  through  the  high  hos 
pital  window  and  flung  a  brilliant  parallelogram  of 
light  upon  one  corner  of  the  trimly  drawn  white  sheet 
that  covered  his  bed.  Sister  Claudia,  in  flowing  black 
robes,  was  arranging  the  sterilised  instruments,  the  pus 
basins,  the  gauze  sponges,  the  roll  of  absorbent  cotton 
and  bandages  for  the  doctor's  visit  at  eleven.  Carey  shut 
his  eyes  wearily.  The  bed  sores  upon  his  right  hip  and 
knee  pained  him  acutely.  In  the  room  adjoining,  a  plain 
tive  child's  voice  called  incessantly : 

"Alice!     Alice!     Alice!" 

He  had  listened  to  that  pathetic  wail  all  night. 

"How  is  he  to-day,  Sister?"  he  asked. 

"He's  better,  I  believe.    The  delirium  won't  last." 

"Who  is  Alice?" 

"His  favourite  sister.  She's  been  beside  him  since 
yesterday  morning.  He  doesn't  recognise  her." 

Carey's  neighbour  was  a  little  boy  of  eight  years,  who 
had  been  brought  to  St.  Vincent's  two  days  ago,  suddenly 
afflicted  with  tetanus  poisoning. 

Carey  fell  to  counting  the  repetitions  of  the  small  suf 
ferer's  cry.  During  the  night,  he  had  counted  as  many  as 

309 


310  THE  AMATEUR 


two  hundred  and  eighty.  Long  after  he  had  desisted,  the 
plaint  continued  regularly,  at  intervals,  like  the  ticking  of 
a  clock. 

"Alice!    Alice!    Alice!" 

Doctor  Emerson  opened  the  door  briskly. 

"Well,  young  man/'  he  said  cheerily,  "how  are  we 
to-day?" 

He  slipped  out  of  his  coat,  plunged  his  hands  into  a 
basin  of  warm  water  Sister  Claudia  had  arranged  for 
him,  and  began  to  scrub  them  vigorously.  A  young  in 
terne,  a  new  comer  at  the  hospital,  in  a  white  sterilised 
gown,  followed  him,  working  upon  his  hands  a  pair  of 
dripping  rubber  gloves.  The  nurse  withdrew. 

Carey  winced  and  shut  his  teeth  as  the  Doctor  flung 
back  the  bed  clothes  and  deftly  removed  the  coarse, 
rough  hospital  night  gown,  slit  up  the  back,  that  he  was 
obliged  to  wear.  He  was  familiar  to  the  last  twinge  with 
the  dreary  routine  of  pain  before  him.  For  ten  weeks  he 
had  received  this  daily  visit,  experienced  this  daily  tor 
ture. 

The  Doctor  examined  the  draining  tubes  in  the  fleshy 
part  of  his  arm,  squeezing  the  slits  from  which  they 
protruded  forcibly.  A  groan,  that  sounded  more  like  a 
sharp  grunt  through  shut  teeth  and  lips,  followed  by  a 
quick  intake  of  breath,  escaped  Carey  with  each  vigorous 
pinch.  The  physician  had  long  passed  that  state  in  their 
relationship  when  there  was  any  necessity  for  meaning 
less  expressions  of  sympathy.  They  had  grown  to  like 
and  thoroughly  understand  one  another. 

Dr.  Emerson  murmured  something  to  the  interne. 

"I'm  going  to  take  these  out,  my  boy,"  he  continued, 
addressing  his  patient.  Carey  noticed  that  the  Doctor 
always  raised  his  voice  when  he  spoke  to  him,  as  one 


THE  AMATEUR  31 


might  to  a  deaf  person.  "And  I  congratulate  you  on 
escaping  a  very  dirty  case  of  infection.  Three  weeks 
ago,  I  was  almost  certain  I  should  have  to  amputate." 

He  turned  to  his  assistant. 

"In  twenty-five  years'  experience,  I  have  never  seen  so 
aggravated  a  case.  The  bullet  travelled  the  length  of 
the  arm,  entering  just  above  the  wrist.  The  humerus 
and  the  ulna  were  both  shattered;  splinters  of  bone  were 
driven  all  through  the  muscular  tissues.  Eight  days 
after  the  arm  was  set,  there  were  evidences  of  infection. 
We  had  a  difficult  time." 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"Now,  let's  look  at  the  shoulder  and  neck." 

With  a  quick  jerk,  he  stripped  the  adhesive  tapes  from 
Carey's  back  and  chest  that  held  the  dressing  in  place. 
Carey's  whole  body  twitched  violently.  The  skin  from 
which  the  adhesions  were  removed  was  raw  and  bleeding. 

"You'll  have  to  rig  up  some  other  kind  of  bandage, 
Cudworth,"  the  physician  said  to  the  interne.  "The  skin 
here  won't  stand  the  tape  any  more." 

He  bent  over  the  gaping  wound. 

"You  see,"  he  continued,  still  speaking  to  his  assistant, 
"there's  where  we  had  to  probe.  The  bullet  was  deeper 
than  we  expected.  The  collarbone  was  fractured,  the 
bone  curiously  splitting  the  bullet,  and  we  found  a  jagged 
piece  of  the  lead  buried  over  here.  The  X-ray  was  not 
clear,  and  I  had  to  open  up,  fearing  infection.  ...  I 
can't  understand  why  those  edges  won't  knit.  That 
flesh  looks  perfectly  healthy!" 

He  prodded  Carey  with  his  finger  tips. 

"No  suppuration  here!  It's  curious,  Cudworth,  what 
you  run  across  in  surgery:  the  unexpected  always  pre 
sents  itself.  Now,  see  here;  the  more  dangerous  per 
foration  was  through  the  right  lung,  and  yet  that  gave 


312  THE  AMATEUR 


us  no  trouble  at  all;  there  was  no  infection.  You  see 
how  cleanly  it  has  healed."  He  placed  his  finger  midway 
down  on  Carey's  back. 

The  interne  leaned  forward  interestedly. 

".  .  .  But  this  wound  in  the  neck  is  annoying." 

Emerson  paused.  Carey  heard  him  rubbing  the  stiff 
stubble  of  beard  upon  his  chin. 

"Get  me  a  hypodermic  and  cocaine/'  he  said,  decisively. 
The  interne  stripped  off  the  rubber  gloves  and  left  the 
room. 

Carey  looked  up  at  the  Doctor  apprehensively. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Trim  you  up  a  bit."  Emerson  smiled  encouragingly. 
Carey  shuddered  and  sank  his  head  into  the  hot  pillow. 

He  kept  his  eyes  closed  while  there  prevailed  about 
him  a  faint  murmur  of  preparation.  A  bit  of  cotton  satu 
rated  in  alcohol  was  rubbed  gently  along  the  surface  of 
the  skin  surrounding  the  wound  in  his  neck,  and  then 
came  the  quick,  biting  thrust  of  the  hypodermic  needle. 
Again  and  again  the  needle  was  thrust  home,  but,  after 
the  third  or  fourth  incision,  he  experienced  no  sensation. 

Determinedly  he  kept  his  eyes  closed,  reassuring  him 
self  that  the  cocaine  would  neutralise  further  pain.  The 
surgeon  and  his  assistant  puttered  with  sterilised  instru 
ments,  gauze  sponges  and  basins. 

Suddenly  a  scream  of  agony  burst  from  between 
Carey's  tightly  shut  lips.  Emerson,  with  a  pair  of  surgical 
scissors,  had  begun  to  trim  the  edges  of  the  wound,  with 
as  calm  deliberation  as  he  might  have  enlarged  a  hole  in  a 
sheet  of  newspaper.  To  Carey  it  was  merciless,  outrage 
ously  cruel.  The  shears  seemed  gigantic,  its  blades  enor 
mous.  The  cocaine  had  no  effect  at  all !  Ten  weeks  of 
pain  and  fever  had  robbed  him  of  any  power  of  control. 
Incoherently  he  sobbed  aloud  his  entreaties  to  the  Doctor. 


THE  AMATEUR  313 


Snip,  snip  went  the  scissors.  Carey  could  feel  the  blood 
running  down  his  shoulder  and  back,  and  could  feel  the 
pressure  of  the  small,  pickle-shaped  basin  as  the  interne 
held  it  firmly  against  his  side  to  catch  the  flow. 

Snip!     Snip! 

"There,  my  boy,  I  guess  that  hurt  a  little,"  Emerson 
said  kindly,  patting  Carey's  head.  "We'll  have  you  about 
again,  now,  in  short  order.  You're  doing  nicely.  You've 
got  both  your  arms  still  and  two  sound  lungs;  you've 
no  kick  coming." 

Carey  lay  sobbing,  his  face  buried  deep  in  the  pillow 
wet  with  saliva  and  tears.  Deftly  Emerson  bandaged 
him,  comfortably,  snugly.  Slowly,  by  unappreciable  de 
grees,  the  agony  of  the  pain  receded. 

The  surgeon  left ;  the  interne  followed ;  Sister  Claudia's 
gentle  hand  smoothed  his  hair  and  presently  she  brought 
him  some  chicken  broth,  which  she  knew  he  liked.  But 
he  could  not  touch  it.  He  still  quivered  with  the  agony 
he  had  endured;  he  was  too  weak  to  make  any  effort  to 
regain  his  self-control.  His  body  had  been  outraged 
by  pain.  He  was  no  more  than  a  quivering  organism. 

Day  followed  day;  night  followed  night;  week  fol 
lowed  week.  Daily  the  wound  was  dressed,  daily  he 
endured  the  pain  of  that  operation.  An  unending  succes 
sion  of  unrelated  events  carried  him,  dully,  listlessly,  from 
hour  to  hour.  After  the  fever  was  checked,  there  had 
been  a  time  when  Carey  began  to  anticipate  the  pleasure 
of  being  well  again.  Long  ago  this  had  passed.  He  was 
beaten  down,  down,  down,  until  he  was  bereft  of  any 
wish  beyond  the  desire  not  to  be  hurt.  Even  the  food  he 
was  permitted  to  eat  lost  its  interest.  He  became  an 
animal  in  whom  all  emotion,  all  wants,  all  instincts  were 
dead,  except  this  one  dominating  fear.  Constantly  the 


3i4  THE  AMATEUR 


bed  sores  galled  him.  He  could  lie  either  upon  his  left 
side  or  flat  upon  his  back.  These  were  the  only  positions 
he  might  assume.  The  inflated  rubber  rings  Sister 
Claudia  was  forever  adjusting  beneath  his  hip  and  knee, 
while  they  relieved  the  immediate  pressure  of  his  weight, 
were  hot  and  uncomfortable.  They  could  be  endured 
for  only  a  short  time. 

Doctor  Floherty  dropped  in  to  visit  him  every  two  or 
three  days.  At  first  he  had  come  every  day;  but  Carey 
was  very  ill  then,  with  a  mounting  fever,  delirious  at 
times,  insensible  to  everything  about  him.  As  conscious 
ness  returned,  something,  vaguely  connected  in  his  mind 
with  Doctor  Floherty,  made  his  visits  irritating  and  un 
welcome.  There  had  been  an  exhausting  interview  with 
a  man  from  the  Police  Department  soon  after  he  came  to 
the  hospital.  This  individual  kept  asking  him  questions, 
repeating  the  same  inquiry  over  and  over,  while  a  tall, 
black,  thin  person  wrote  down  in  a  book  whatever  he  an 
swered.  Then  followed  the  period  of  the  fever, — a  long 
succession  of  whirling  flights,  unexpected  surging  sensa 
tions  and  dizzying  downward  dips,  like  experiences  on  a 
scenic  railway.  There  had  come  a  night  when,  with 
wide  staring  eyes,  the  vapour  that  befogged  his  mind 
cleared,  and  he  saw  Sister  Claudia  sprinkling  drops  of 
water  from  her  finger  tips  upon  the  bed.  As  he  gazed 
at  her,  she  caught  his  eye  and,  recognising  the  saneness 
that  was  there,  came  and  sat  by  his  pillow,  smoothing 
back  his  hair  with  her  tender,  rough-skinned  hand.  She 
bent  over  him. 

"Carey,"  she  asked,  "are  you  a  Catholic?  Can  you 
hear  me?" 

Carey  regarded  her  fixedly. 

"Am  I  going  to  die,  Sister?"  he  whispered.  A  com 
forting  feeling  of  resignation  filled  his  heart.  It  wouldn't 


THE  AMATEUR  315 


be  bad  to  die.  Death  was  a  friendly  thing;  it  would  be 
welcome  rather  than  otherwise.  There  would  be  a  few, 
possibly,  who  would  feel  sorry  to  hear  about  it. 

"We  are  all  in  God's  hands,  whatever  is  His  will.  He 
may  take  you  to  His  peace  and  to  His  home.  .  .  ." 

That  was  it, — peace ;  that  was  what  he  wanted, — peace. 
To  be  free  from  the  body  that  held  him,  bound  him,  en 
cased  him! 

At  that  time  there  had  been  no  pain.  It  was  only  after 
the  fever  burnt  itself  out  that  he  began  to  suffer.  The 
time  came  when  he  wished  with  all  the  strength  of  his 
racked  and  wasted  body  that  he  had  died  that  night. 
There  followed  a  period  when  he  ceased  to  protest,  when 
he  lay  doggedly  enduring  his  suffering.  He  prayed  only 
to  be  let  alone,  to  be  tortured  no  more. 

Recollections  of  his  life,  his  work,  his  friends,  Myra, 
Springer,  Jerry  Hart,  were  wiped  from  his  mind  as 
cleanly  as  a  child  sponges  a  slate.  It  was  Floherty's 
solicitous  face  at  the  door,  at  the  bedside,  bending  over 
him,  that  vaguely  suggested  them  to  him,  troublesomely, 
unpleasantly.  He  shrank  from  the  irksome  task  of  re 
membering  again;  he  dreaded  what  might  happen  when 
the  past  was  recalled. 

The  weather  grew  hot,  the  room  stifling,  the  summer 
shut  down  relentlessly  upon  a  sweltering  city.  Carey, 
stretched  flat  upon  his  back,  felt  the  drops  of  perspira 
tion  that  formed  upon  his  chest  trickle  down  the  sides 
of  his  body.  Sister  Claudia  laid  ice  compresses  on  his 
head,  and  sat  beside  him  fanning  his  burning  face  for 
long  intervals. 

It  was  during  a  blistering  morning  that  predicted  an 
afternoon  of  intense  discomfort  that  Sister  Paul,  who 
was  in  charge  of  St.  Jerome's  hall,  entered  Carey's  room 


316  THE  AMATEUR 


and  took  his  hand  affectionately  between  her  two  cool, 
capable  ones. 

"Want  to  see  any  friends  ?"  she  asked,  her  eyes  twink 
ling  through  their  half -shut  lids.  Her  expression  was  al 
ways  one  of  amused  interest.  She  appeared  to  read  hu 
man  nature  as  clearly  as  a  printed  page. 

Carey's  answer  was  a  slow  contraction  of  the  brows. 
Sister  Paul  patted  his  hand  reassuringly. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  she  said.  "I've  turned  them  away 
before, — all  of  them.  Doctor  Emerson  gave  orders  you 
were  to  see  no  one,  but  that  was  when  you  first  came,  in 
March.  He  was  speaking  to  me  about  you  yesterday ;  he 
doesn't  like  your  listlessness,  the  way  you're  inclined  to 
lie  here,  day  by  day,  and  make  no  effort  to  rouse  your 
self.  You're  getting  well;  the  wound  in  your  neck  is 
healing  slowly  but  satisfactorily;  you  would  soon  cure 
the  bed  sores  if  you  sat  up  awhile.  Now  I'm  going  to  let 
your  friend  come  up  and  see  you,  just  for  a  few  minutes. 
He's  been  here  every  day  for  nearly  a  month." 

Carey  shut  his  eyes  in  resignation.  He  was  too  un 
utterably  weak  to  combat  this  strong,  determined  woman. 
He  didn't  care  if  she  admitted  a  regiment  of  people.  Pres 
ently  there  was  a  careful  knock  at  the  door,  and  Carey 
opened  his  eyes  to  see  the  old,  familiar  features  of  Joe 
Downer. 

His  first  sensation  was  a  feeling  of  intense  annoyance. 
But,  as  he  turned  his  head  in  irritation  toward  the  wall, 
instinctively  he  stretched  out  a  long,  bony  hand  to 
ward  his  old  friend.  Neither  spoke.  Joe  sat  down  be 
side  the  bed,  took  Carey's  hand  in  his,  and  so  they  re 
mained  for  several  minutes.  Carey  resolutely  kept  his 
head  turned  away.  Here  at  last  was  come  what  he  had 
unconsciously  been  fearing :  the  meddling  outside  world ; 
now  was  the  time  when  disagreeable  and  distressing 


THE  AMATEUR  317 


things  once  more  must  be  faced  and  decided.  He  felt 
himself  too  helplessly  weak  and  exhausted  to  meet  the 
ordeal. 

Tears  dropping  upon  his  hand  presently  apprised  him 
that  Joe  was  crying.  He  had  never  seen  Joe  cry;  the 
idea  distressed  him.  He  turned  to  look  at  him.  His 
friend  had  covered  his  eyes  with  one  hand  while  he 
clung  to  Carey's  with  the  other. 

"What  the  hell,  Joe!"  Carey's  exclamation  was  little 
more  than  a  whisper.  Joe's  head  sank  lower.  Carey 
pressed  his  hand.  Dimly  he  began  to  realise  that  only 
the  most  poignant  emotion  could  move  Joe  like  this. 

"What's  the  matter,  Joe?"  he  demanded,  perplexed. 

"You  look  ..." 

Swiftly  Joe  reached  for  his  handkerchief,  loosening 
Carey's  hand.  Carey  raised  it  to  his  own  face,  wonder 
ing  and  troubled.  Not  until  the  moment  of  contact  did 
he  realise  that  the  hair  upon  his  face  had  grown  into  a 
long,  ragged,  yellow  beard.  Subconsciously  he  saw  his 
face,  gaunt,  white  and  haggard,  the  tangled  growth 
surrounding  it  like  yellow  seaweed. 

"I  haven't  seen  you,  Carey,  for  nearly  two  months," 
Joe  said  brokenly. 

"Two  months!"  Carey  repeated,  still  feeling  annoyed 
and  puzzled. 

"They  let  me  come  once  or  twice  while  you  were  a  bit 
out  of  your  head ;  then  I  had  to  go  home  again  for  a  few 
days." 

It  was  too  perplexing.  Carey  shut  his  tired  eyes.  He 
felt  he  ought  to  ask  Joe  how  his  mother  was,  although 
he  was  entirely  aware  she  was  dead. 

There  was  a  welcome  interruption;  Sister  Claudia 
re-entered  the  room,  and  Joe  rose  to  go,  pressing  Carey's 
limp  and  unresponsive  hand  as  he  said  good-bye. 


3i8  THE  AMATEUR 


"I  can  come  to-morrow,  Sister?'5  Carey  heard  him 
asking. 

"You'll  have  to  speak  to  Sister  Paul/'  she  replied 
sweetly. 

Carey  devoutly  hoped  permission  would  be  refused. 

Slowly  Carey's  inert  brain  was  stimulated  back  into 
activity.  It  was  a  long,  tiring  process,  carefully  to  be 
gauged  and  checked  by  Sister  Paul's  vigilant  supervision. 
At  times,  when  the  spur  of  suggestion  urged  his  return 
ing  consciousness  too  sharply,  he  would  be  left  to  him 
self  for  two  or  three  days.  At  others,  Joe  would  sit 
silently  beside  him,  briefly  answering  his  infrequent  ques 
tions. 

Doctor  Floherty  came  to  see  him,  but  his  visits  were 
brief;  he  rarely  stayed  long  enough  to  sit  down.  Carey, 
however,  found  the  opportunity  to  thank  him  for  his  effec 
tive  care  on  the  night  of  the  shooting.  He  wondered  what 
would  have  become  of  him  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  doc 
tor's  presence  and  his  capable  management  of  the  situa 
tion.  From  him  he  learned  that  old  Blanchard  was  in 
the  Tombs,  and  his  trial  for  attempted  murder  would  be 
postponed  until  Carey  was  quite  well  again. 

One  day  they  put  into  his  hands  half  a  dozen  of  the 
letters  that  had  accumulated  during  his  illness.  En 
velopes  bearing  in  their  upper  left-hand  corner  the  im 
print  of  business  concerns  had  been  carefully  sifted  out. 
They  allowed  him  to  read  those  only  of  a  personal, 
friendly  character.  Among  these  he  found  one  from 
Jane  Boardman.  It  was  a  simple,  unaffected  note  of 
sympathy.  She  had  read  the  account  of  the  shooting  in 
the  papers  and  had  learned  that  Carey  had  been  taken 
to  St.  Vincent's  Hospital.  In  response  to  her  telephoned 
inquiries,  she  had  been  told  he  had  a  good  chance  for 


THE  AMATEUR  319 


recovery,  and  she  hoped  the  few  flowers  she  was  sending 
would  help  cheer  his  convalescence.  She  remained  ever 
sincerely  his  friend,  Jane  Boardman.  The  note  was  dated 
late  in  March ;  it  was  the  middle  of  July  when  Carey  was 
able  to  read  it. 

It  was  this  brief  letter  on  its  diminutive-sized  note 
paper  that  did  more  to  rend  the  curtain  of  fog  that 
obliterated  the  past  from  Carey's  recollection  than  any 
stimulation  that  either  Joe  or  Sister  Paul  had  so  far 
dared  to  try.  He  thrust  it  beneath  his  pillow  and  asked 
Sister  Claudia  to  bring  the  rest  of  his  mail.  A  great 
many  letters  had  arrived,  she  explained,  but  Mr.  Downer 
had  these  in  keeping.  On  the  following  day,  when  Joe 
paid  his  customary  visit,  Carey  demanded  them  from  him. 
Most  of  them  Downer  had  opened  and  answered.  There 
were  only  a  few  that  were  not  of  a  business  nature. 
Springer,  and  even  Cecilia,  had  written  several  times; 
both  had  called  at  the  hospital,  but  had  not  been  per 
mitted  to  see  him.  Old  Mrs.  Harrison,  who  had  attended 
his  mother  during  her  last  illness,  had  written  him;  but 
that  was  all.  There  was  not  a  line  nor  a  message  from 
Myra,  nor  from  any  one  else. 

Fragment  by  fragment  he  pieced  his  life  together.  As 
his  vision  cleared  and  memory  returned,  the  picture  he 
came  gradually  to  view  was  not  a  pleasant  one.  Perhaps 
it  was  just  as  well  that  the  process  by  which  his  mind 
was  able  to  recall  the  past  was  a  slow  one.  As  Sister 
Claudia  sat  in  her  chair  by  the  window  reading  serenely 
from  her  little  prayer  book,  she  was  often  startled  by 
hearing  Carey  suddenly  groan  aloud.  Always  she  rose 
and  bent  over  him,  brushing  his  long  hair  from  his 
eyes. 

"Pain?"  she  would  ask  solicitously. 

"Pain  of  mind,"  Carey  would  answer  brokenly. 


32o  THE  AMATEUR 


Like  the  swinging  of  a  pendulum,  Carey's  disorgan 
ised  brain  carried  him  from  one  extreme  to  another. 
One  day,  Father  Bulotti,  from  the  Church  of  St.  Francis 
Xavier,  came  to  see  him.  Sister  Claudia  suggested  the 
visit,  and  Carey  welcomed  the  idea.  Blunderingly,  halt 
ingly,  Carey  made  a  full  confession  of  his  sins  to  the 
grey-haired  Jesuit.  A  more  clever  priest  would  have 
swung  Carey  to  Catholicism.  Father  Bulotti  would  prom 
ise  absolution  only  upon  a  profession  of  faith.  Carey's 
soul  cried  out  for  sympathy;  he  was  in  no  condition  to 
wrestle  with  dogmas  or  to  join  in  arguments  by  which 
Father  Bulotti  assured  him  his  religious,  doubts  would  be 
cleared  away.  With  the  priest's  departure,  Carey  lapsed 
into  melancholia.  All  day  he  would  lie  staring  vacantly 
upward,  writhing  in  spirit,  as  some  recollection  of  his  old 
life  came  back  to  him.  Over  and  over  the  same  ground 
his  mind  travelled,  accepting,  with  a  slowly  shaking  head 
and  shut  lips  at  each  painful  memory,  additional  evi 
dence  that  confirmed  the  picture  of  his  life  of  debased 
profligacy. 

Soon  after  Joe's  coming,  he  had  dully  agreed  to  his 
friend's  suggestion  and  a  day  or  two  later  signed  a  power- 
of -attorney  by  which  Joe  was  empowered  to  pay  his 
debts  and  straighten  out  his  affairs.  After  his  mind 
began  to  clear,  relief  came  in  a  welcoming  rush  when  he 
discovered  that  this  had  been  done  and  that  the  tangle 
of  his  accounts  and  his  obligations  were  being  properly 
managed. 

He  and  Joe  had  many  talks.  Every  afternoon,  the 
latter  would  arrive  and,  for  an  hour  or  more,  sit  rocking 
quietly  beside  the  bed.  At  first  there  were  long  silences 
between  them,  Joe  waiting  patiently  for  Carey's  mind  to 
adjust  itself.  Gradually  their  old,  intimate  relationship 
returned;  there  were  no  reticences,  no  withheld  confi- 


THE  AMATEUR  321 


dences,  no  secrets.    Perhaps  never  in  their  lives  were  they 
so  close  to  one  another. 

It  was  the  tenth  of  August  when  Carey,  with  Joe's  arm 
about  him,  slowly  went  down  the  stone  steps  of  the  hos 
pital  and  climbed  into  the  waiting  taxi-cab.  As  they 
drove  through  the  streets,  Carey  gazed  out  into  the  bril 
liant  sunshine  and  beheld,  as  it  were,  a  different  world. 
It  was  as  if  some  one  had  snatched  away  the  coloured 
glass  through  which  he  had  looked,  before  that  day  when 
i  he  was  carried  upon  a  stretcher  into  St.  Vincent's  Hos- 
!  pital.  Everything  appeared  new  and  strange  to  him ; 
I  everything  seemed  dazzling  and  bright.  Most  of  all  was  he 
t  interested  in  the  strong  delineation  of  the  faces  of  the  peo- 
I  pie  he  saw  passing  rapidly  by  in  the  street.  Each  ex 
pressed  the  effect  of  emotions,  like  the  surface  of  a  rock 
that  is  changed  by  dropping  water.  It  struck  him  as  curi 
ous  that  they  should  all  have  eyes  and  noses  and  mouths. 
The  human  physiognomy  was,  after  all,  a  hideous  thing, 
with  its  organs  functioning  where  all  might  see.  There 
was  no  modesty  in  it.  The  human  face  was  illy  devised. 
Each  of  the  people  he  gazed  out  upon  was  hurrying  by, 
intent  to  fulfil  a  purpose,  a  petty,  trivial  purpose,  which, 
after  all,  mattered  so  little.  They  all  appeared  ridiculous 
to  him,  running  about  like  aimless  bugs.  He  had  touched 
Death's  finger  tips  across  the  threshold  of  Life.  One 
glimpse  of  that  stern,  grim  visage  had  swept  the  cobwebs, 
the  murk  and  dirt  from  before  his  eyes,  and  he  was  able 
to  see  now,  while  the  poor  fools  he  watched  from  the 
cab's  window  ran  about  in  blind  circles.  The  buildings 
by  which  he  once  had  been  thrilled,  that  had  impressed 
him  when  first  he  came  to  the  city  as  evidences  of  achieve 
ment,  of  romance,  of  power, — now  were  excrescences,  the 
puny  monuments  of  pigmy  creatures  that  could  be  swept 


322  THE  AMATEUR 


away  in  the  winking  of  an  eye  by  one  manifestation  of 
Nature. 

There  was  no  monster  here,  to  be  feared  and  dreaded 
and  conquered.  Where  was  that  which  had  filled  his 
heart  and  brain  with  terror  the  day  he  stood  on  the  Chris 
topher  Street  ferry  so  long  ago,  and  watched  lying  flat 
and  crouching,  a  twinkle  with  a  myriad  of  lights  ?  There 
was  no  such  thing.  It  existed  only  in  his  fancy,  a  figment 
of  his  brain.  He  had  come  face  to  face  with  a  more 
terrifying  monster,  had  been  on  intimate  terms  with 
him  for  a  long  time,  and,  terrifying  though  he  might  be, 
Carey  had  felt  no  fear  or  distrust. 

The  taxi  slowed  down  and  stopped  in  front  of  the 
Fifty-ninth  Street  studio.  Trembling  from  the  weakness 
the  exertion  cost  him,  Carey  got  out  and  slowly  made 
his  way  upon  Joe's  arm  to  the  elevator  within,  that  shot 
him  up  to  his  own  floor.  Naka  opened  the  door,  smiling, 
sucking  his  breath  in  through  his  teeth,  bowing  energet 
ically. 

Carey  gazed  about.  The  spectre  of  his  old  life  rose 
up  before  him,  greeting  him  mockingly.  The  subtle 
perfume  that  Myra  affected  seemed  still  to  hang  in  the 
air.  It  nauseated  him.  He  turned  to  Joe,  shuddering. 

"Not  here — not  here,  Joe,"  he  muttered. 

Upstairs,  Naka  swiftly  stripped  off  his  bagging,  un 
familiar  clothes,  and  presently  he  sank  luxuriously  into 
the  bed  he  had  not  known  for  five  months. 

The  period  of  readjustment,  the  time  it  took  before  his 
full  strength  returned,  was  longer  than  he  anticipated. 
Every  other  day  he  was  obliged  to  report  to  Doctor  Emer 
son's  office  for  a  fresh  dressing.  The  wound  in  his  shoul 
der  was  slowly  healing,  but  there  would  always  be  a 
depression,  the  size  of  an  egg,  where  it  had  been.  He 


THE  AMATEUR  323 


was  weak  and  listless;  his  strength  coquetted  with  him 
like  a  flirting  school  girl.  The  weather  was  warm,  and 
the  radiance  of  the  sunshine  upon  his  back  was  grati 
fying  and  pleasant.  Carey  liked  to  walk  out  in  the  Park 
with  Joe,  and  sit  in  some  sunny  spot  and  watch  the  stream 
of  nurse  maids  and  carriages,  the  fretting  babies,  the 
scampering,  clamorous  children,  pass  by.  His  -custom 
ary  figure,  his  pleasant,  friendly  smile,  became  a  familiar 
sight.  Several  of  the  children  made  friends  with  him; 
even  some  of  the  nurse  maids  favoured  him  with  a  re 
spectful  "Good  day,  sir." 

Springer  came  to  see  him  one  morning.  Carey  had 
written  a  feeble  note,  as  soon  as  he  was  able,  and  Springer 
had  responded  immediately  by  taking  an  early  train  for 
the  city  the  following  morning.  Carey  could  see  the 
effect  of  his  own  changed  face  and  wasted  figure  in  his 
eyes.  He  felt  that  he  had  indeed  changed,  both  inside  and 
out.  His  long  period  of  suffering  had  left  its  mark 
upon  him;  he  looked  older;  the  bloom  of  youth,  that  had 
lingered  with  him,  was  gone  forever. 

Springer  was  full  of  news,  of  explanations  for  what,  he 
feared,  had  seemed  neglect,  of  affectionate  assurances. 
Repeated  calls  at  the  hospital  had  been  invariably  met  by 
firm  refusals  to  allow  any  one  to  see  Carey.  Both  of  them 
had  written.  Carey  had  surely  received  the  letters  ?  Re 
cently  he  had  been  excessively  busy  making  five  hundred 
pen-and-ink  sketches  for  a  text  book,  and  Celia — well, 
Celia  wasn't  well — but,  Carey  might  as  well  know — 
there  was  a  baby  expected  in  December!  Springer 
grinned,  half  sheepishly,  half  proudly,  as  he  conveyed  the 
news ;  but  to  Carey  it  seemed  both  splendid  and  affecting 
that  Springer  was  to  become  a  father,  was  to  have  a 
child  of  his  own. 

Carey  must  come  to  live  with  them  in  Leonia  until  he 


324  THE  AMATEUR 


was  strong  again.  Celia  was  wild  to  have  him,  had  made 
Springer  promise  not  to  come  back  without  him.  It  was 
pleasant  to  recognise  the  note  of  sincerity  and  affection 
in  his  friend's  voice.  But  Carey  shook  his  head;  there 
was  Joe  and  his  frequent  visits  to  the  doctor.  Perhaps, 
in  two  or  three  weeks,  it  might  be  managed.  Joe  had 
long  overstayed  the  time  of  his  visit  and  had  recently 
spoken  of  going  home  before  his  own  little  business  went 
altogether  to  pieces;  Emerson  would  discharge  him  for 
good  after  a  few  more  visits.  They  parted  with  the 
understanding  that  Carey  should  move  over  to  Leonia 
on  the  first  of  October. 

On  the  eve  of  Joe's  departure,  Carey  wrote  him  a 
cheque  for  three  hundred  dollars,  plus  the  four  years* 
interest  that  had  accrued  since  it  was  borrowed.  He  had 
resolved  to  let  this  wait  no  longer.  He  cut  Joe's  pro 
testations  short,  for  he  felt  his  own  unforgivable  negli 
gence  in  the  matter,  his  ingratitude,  his  utter  failure  to 
appreciate  a  devotion  so  loyal  and  unselfish.  The  sum 
had  been  borrowed  from  Joe's  meagre  savings,  upon  the 
clearly  understood  agreement  that  it  was  to  be  repaid  as 
soon  as  Carey  was  upon  his  feet.  He  had  squandered 
almost  as  much  during  the  past  year  in  a  single  night's 
entertainment. 

Carey  bought  a  fine,  solid  gold-cased  watch  and  chain 
and  slipped  both  into  Joe's  pocket  as  they  stood  by  the 
guard,  examining  tickets,  in  the  noisy  station.  He  was 
not  to  open  the  package  until  he  was  in  the  train. 

Perhaps  the  strongest  emotion  Carey  had  ever  ex 
perienced  in  a  human  relationship  came  to  him  as  he 
wrung  Joe's  hand  in  farewell.  At  the  moment,  nothing 
that  had  ever  come  into  his  life  seemed  comparable  with 
this  fine,  strong,  loyal  devotion.  The  stress  of  life,  new 
influences,  the  various  tides  that  swept  them  hither  and 


THE  AMATEUR  325 


thither  in  the  sea  of  their  individual  experiences,  had  left 
it  unchanged,  supreme,  steadfast.  Here  was  friendship, 

-unselfish,  unexacting  friendship,  demanding  no  recog 
nition,  no  reward,  no  return, — seeking  only  to  serve. 

One  other  resolution  that  he  had  made  during  the  long 
period  of  his  convalescence  at  the  hospital  he  put  into 
execution  immediately  after  Joe's  departure.  It  was  an 
order  for  a  little  stone  at  the  Mt.  Kisco  Cemetery  where 
his  father  was  buried.  He  spent  the  better  part  of  a 
day  there,  speculating  upon  his  parents'  unfortunate 
marriage,  upon  their  unsuitableness  for  one  another,  and 
upon  himself,  his  own  character  and  nature  that  was  the 
result  of  their  union.  He  wondered  what  manner  of  man 
his  father  really  had  been;  he  would  have  liked  to  have 
talked  to  him.  He  was  embarrassed  and  made  painfully 
self-conscious  by  the  glances  of  a  group  of  women  in 
heavy  mourning  who  watched  him  as  he  awkwardly  ar 
ranged  the  flowers  he  had  brought  with  him  in  the  iron, 
cone-shaped  cups  at  the  head  and  foot  of  the  grave. 

The  effort  of  carrying  his  suitcase  at  intervals  on  the 
journey  to  Leonia  dispelled  any  illusions  Carey  might 
have  had  about  his  restored  strength.  He  was  trembling, 
and  a  fine  perspiration  broke  out  upon  him  as  he  set  the 
bag  down  in  front  of  the  Springer  gate  and  rested  against 
the  high  wooden  post  on  which  it  swung.  Springer  came 
hurrying  down  the  brick  walk,  effusive  in  his  greeting, 
catching  up  the  offending  luggage  and  taking  Carey's 
arm  as  they  climbed  the  slight  grade  toward  the  house. 
Presently  Carey  lay  comfortably  in  a  long  wicker  chair, 
with  pillows  at  his  head  and  back,  while  Cecilia  sat  beside 
him  expressing  her  solicitude,  and  Springer  fetched  a 
glass  of  water. 

The  following  weeks  were  full  of  delightful  relaxa- 


326  THE  AMATEUR 


tion,  pleasant  comfort,  and  the  first  real  happiness  Carey 
had  known  for  a  long  time.  In  the  morning,  it  was  nine, 
and  sometimes  later,  before  he  awoke*  The  sunlight 
flooded  the  room  and  there  was  the  song  of  birds  just 
outside  the  open  window.  As  he  leisurely  dressed  in 
his  brown  army  shirt  and  soft  flannels,  he  could  hear  the 
tinkle  of  the  Japanese  wind-bells  that  dangled  from  the 
roof  of  the  porch  and  stirred  musically  with  the  morning 
breeze.  Always  he  found  a  little  table,  covered  with  a 
white  cloth  and  arrayed  with  sparkling  silver  and  glass 
ware,  waiting  for  him  by  the  porch  railing,  the  morning 
paper  neatly  folded  by  his  plate.  Cecilia  invariably  met 
him  at  the  open  front  door,  a  steaming  coffee-pot  in  one 
hand,  a  plate  of  buttered  toast  in  the  other.  Never  were 
breakfasts  more  thoroughly  enjoyed,  never  was  coffee 
more  deliciously  made.  It  was  pleasant  to  sit  idly  read 
ing  the  morning  news,  smoking  cigarettes  that  were  now 
beginning  to  be  enjoyed  again,  and  feel  the  reviving  sun, 
while  the  wind-bells  overhead  maintained  their  faint 
tinkle,  and  Cecilia's  slow-moving,  ample  figure  passed  in 
and  out  of  the  house,  setting  it  to  rights,  telephoning  her 
orders  for  the  day  to  the  grocer  and  butcher.  There  was 
always  a  pleasant  hour  before  luncheon  when  she  brought 
her  sewing  out  and  sat  beside  him,  talked  of  herself  and 
Springer  and  their  plans.  Carey  thoroughly  enjoyed 
these  moments,  nor  did  he  ever  find  her  simple  narra 
tives  and  comments  lacking  in  interest.  She  seemed  to 
him  to  have  grown  into  a  beautiful  woman ;  the  rotundity 
of  her  face  and  figure  became  her;  it  was  the  flowering 
of  the  rose :  benign,  gracious,  charming.  Particularly  did 
her  charm  appeal  to  him  when,  with  a  slightly  heightened 
colour,  she  held  up  for  his  inspection  the  tiny  flannel  gar 
ment  she  was  busy  feather-stitching. 

From  the  lower  end  of  the  garden,  where  the  studio 


THE  AMATEUR  327 


was  situated,  Springer's  voice,  ringing  out  some  idle, 
lappy  song,  occasionally  reached  them.  Carey  was  moved 
at  such  moments  with  some  curious  pang,  some  poignant 
'egret  or  longing  that  he  could  not  understand. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  three  always  went  for  a  long 
valk,  kicking  before  them  the  leaves  that  had  begun  to 
fall  and  were  thick  upon  their  path.    In  front  of  certain 
lomes  which  strung  themselves  along  the  roadway  the 
umbled  dead   foliage  had  been  raked  into  great  piles; 
ome  of  these  were  on  fire,  a  gardener  and  a  boy  or  two 
vatching  the  conflagration.     Veils  of  smoke  drifted  in 
and  out  among  the  trees,  leisurely,  gracefully,  vagrantly. 
The  air  was  heavy  with  pungent  fragrance.  There  was  a 
[uaint  tea  house  nearly  two  miles  along  the  road  toward 
Tenafly,  that  always  provided  a  pleasant  destination.   An 
old  couple  ran  the  place,  a  motherly,  wrinkled  old  woman 
and  her  husband,  who  had  once  been  a  sailor.  His  part  in 
the  establishment  seemed  to  be  that  of  landscape  architect 
and  tender-of-cows.    He  herded  the  two  animals  they 
owned  to  their  pasture  in  the  morning,  and  herded  them 
back  to  the  tiny  barn  in  the  evening.    Between  times  he 
puttered  about  the  place,  erecting  rustic  fences,  rustic 
gates,  rustic  seats  and  rustic  arbours.     He  was  forever 
tinkering  with  saw  and  hammer.    His  wife  provided  the 
tea  and  marvellously  baked  bread  and  biscuits.    Her  unin 
terrupted  flow  of  words  was  in  marked  contrast  to  her 
life-partner's  never  broken  silence. 

Springer,  Cecilia  and  Carey  idled  here  every  after 
noon  for  an  hour  or  more.  There  was  a  view  of  the 
river  from  the  garden,  and  it  was  delicious  to  sprawl  on 
the  warm,  grassy  earth  and  watch  the  steamers  and  tugs 
and  white  patches  of  the  sail  boats  plying  up  and  down 
so  far  below. 

The  walk  home  was  perhaps  the  most  agreeable  part  of 


328  THE  AMATEUR 


the  daily  excursion.  Carey  was  content  to  listen  to  the 
animated  talk  of  the  other  two.  Their  absorbing  love 
for  one  another  had  lost  all  the  irritation  it  had  once  held 
for  him.  They  included  him  in  it ;  never  once  did  he  feel 
conscious  that  he  was  an  interloper;  their  embraces,  the 
demonstrations  of  their  affection,  were  always  restrained 
and  yet  unaffected  and  natural.  A  new  kind  of  love  for 
them  both  germinated  in  Carey's  heart.  Invariably,  how 
ever,  he  experienced  an  acute  sense  of  shame  whenever 
he  recalled  the  irritation  and  annoyance  he  had  felt  when 
Springer  had  tried  to  warn  him,  out  of  his  wider  experi 
ence,  that  the  time  would  come  when  he  would  bitterly 
regret  the  looseness  of  his  life. 

After  dinner,  Cecilia  would  play  to  them.  Springer 
generally  had  a  magazine  before  him  and  pulled  inter 
mittently  at  his  pipe;  but  Carey  was  satisfied  to  listen. 
She  had  developed  her  music  and  had  now  a  finished  tech 
nique  and  a  fine  expression.  Carey  felt  the  difference, 
although  he  was  unable  to  explain  it.  In  after  years,  he 
never  heard  the  Moonlight  Sonata  without  recalling  the 
mellow  radiance  of  the  dimly-lit  room,  with  its  two  silk- 
shaded  lamps;  the  half -recumbent  form  of  Springer 
slowly  turning  the  pages  of  his  magazine,  while  the  lamp 
above  him  threw  a  brilliant  high-light  upon  one  side  of 
his  broad  forehead;  the  swaying,  graceful  figure  of  Ce 
cilia,  and  the  occasional  flash  of  her  white  hands ;  while, 
through  the  window,  came  the  sustained  stridulating  of 
the  crickets  and  frogs,  and  the  warm  night  air  carried  the 
fragrance  of  all  the  blended  scents  of  Autumn. 


CHAPTER  II 


OLD  BLANCHARD  had  died.  Doctor  Floherty 
brought  him  the  news  one  morning  after  Carey's  re 
turn  to  the  city.  There  had  always  been  a  doubt  as  to  the 
old  man's  sanity  in  the  minds  of  the  officials  of  the  Tombs. 
At  times,  Floherty  had  been  informed,  he  railed  against 
Carey  as  the  cause  of  his  daughter's  dishonour  and  as  a 
despoiler  of  women's  virtue;  at  others  he  brokenly  ac 
knowledged  the  injustice  of  his  accusation.  A  severe  cold 
had  suddenly  developed  into  pneumonia,  a  few  weeks 
before,  and  he  had  been  removed  to  Bellevue,  where  he 
had  lingered  a  fortnight  longer.  Floherty  went  to  see 
him,  but  the  old  man  was  too  far  gone  to  recognise  him. 

His  death  was  a  great  relief  to  Carey,  who  had  received 
several  intimations  that  the  District  Attorney  intended  to 
prosecute  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  appear.  Carey  had 
never  felt  any  sense  of  injustice  when  he  thought  of  the 
old  man  who  had  attempted  his  life.  He  considered  he 
had  deserved  some  kind  of  terrible  punishment,  even 
though  he  was  not  actually  responsible  for  the  particular 
crime  of  which  Anna's  father  believed  him  guilty. 

He  faced  his  new  life  delivered  from  this  troublesome 
complication.  He  returned  to  New  York  with  the  half- 
formed  resolution  that  he  would  go  over  to  Paris  for  a 
year.  The  thought  of  taking  up  his  old  work  again  was 
extremely  distasteful  to  him ;  he  had  no  ambition  to  con- 


330 


THE  AMATEUR 


tinue  to  make  his  pretty-girl  heads.  He  was  through 
with  that  kind  of  unworthy  and  shoddy  work.  Always 
he  recalled  Charles  Hanna  Simpson's  advice  and  the  elo 
quent  motion  of  his  finger  across  his  throat,  the  night 
they  had  met  before  the  bar  in  Sherry's  cafe.  It  would 
be  better  to  do  that  than  go  back  to  making  heads. 

But  Carey  found  that  the  money  he  had  so  easily  made, 
that  at  one  time  had  appeared  as  a  five-figure  credit  bal 
ance  in  his  cheque  book,  was  gone.  Joe  had  several  times 
broached  the  subject  of  his  finances  to  him,  but  Carey 
had  always  stopped  him  with : 

"Please — please,  Joe.  Don't  worry  me  about  it.  Do 
as  you  think  best.  There  are  the  two  cars ;  sell  'em  both. 
I  shall  never  want  to  ride  in  them  again." 

Joe  had  sold  them.  He  informed  Carey  of  the  fact 
one  day,  and  Carey  had  dully  nodded.  The  only  sensa 
tion  he  had  had  at  the  time  was  one  of  complacent  ap 
proval.  Now,  to  find  himself  poor  again  was  rather  a 
satisfaction  than  otherwise.  Joe  had  cleared  off  what  he 
owed  with  what  the  cars  had  brought.  The  balance  in  the 
bank  would  take  care  of  the  rent  of  the  Fifty-ninth  Street 
studio  for  the  remainder  of  the  lease, — another  two 
months, — and  pay  the  doctor's  and  the  hospital  bill. 
After  that  there  would  be  less  than  two  hundred  dollars. 

Carey  closed  the  Fifty-ninth  Street  apartment  and 
moved  back  to  his  old  quarters  in  The  Rembrandt  Studios. 
He  couldn't  work  in  the  gilded  surroundings  that  re 
minded  him  always  of  his  revels  and  debauches.  But  it 
was  the  ghost  of  his  former  self  he  encountered  as  he 
opened  the  door  of  his  old  room,  and  left  and  entered  the 
rambling  building.  He  had  been  happier  there  than  at 
any  other  time  in  his  life.  Success, — it  had  seemed 
worth  while  then — had  come  knocking  at  his  door; 
Springer,  gay,  fun-loving,  rioting  Springer,  had  lived 


THE  AMATEUR  331 


down  the  hall.  Life  was  worth  living  in  those  days; 
each  morning  when  he  had  awakened,  he  had  wondered 
what  new  and  pleasant  thing  would  come  to  make  his 
existence  brighter,  more  interesting. 

A  dull  monotony  surrounded  him  now.  No  one  spoke 
to  him ;  the  men  and  women  he  met  in  the  halls  failed  to 
notice  him.  The  smells  of  cooking  foods  that  filtered 
through  the  various  studio  doors  sickened  him ;  the  laugh 
ter  and  high  voices  within  sounded  blatant  and  shrill; 
musicians  at  their  practising  thumped  their  tin-panny 
pianos,  and  the  vocalists  screamed  their  arpeggios  tire 
lessly.  It  was  all  in  harmony  with  his  mood.  It  irri 
tated  him;  but  he  was  like  a  man  consumed  with  fierce 
hate  and  anger,  who  welcomes  the  onslaught  of  the  wind 
and  rain  as  he  strides  in  the  teeth  of  a  furious  storm. 

One  day,  with  what  samples  of  his  old  work  he  could 
gather  together  in  his  portfolio,  he  started  out  once  more 
to  make  the  rounds  of  the  magazine  offices  and  adver 
tising  agencies.  But  his  more  recent  notoriety  had 
eclipsed  his  previous  fame.  Men  came  out  of  their  offices 
and  into  the  reception  room,  where  he  waited,  to  stare 
at  him.  As  he  sat  waiting  beside  a  door  that  was  opened 
a  few  inches,  he  heard  a  voice  say : 

"That  man,  Carey  Williams,  is  outside ;  you  remember 
the  feller  who  drew  so  many  pretty-girl  heads  awhile  ago 
and  then  got  shot  up  for  ruining  some  one's  daughter? 
Every  one  was  crazy  about  his  stuff  last  winter.  He's 
round  here  wanting  work  again.  Take  a  look  at  him." 

The  speaker  opened  the  door  wide  and  smiled  his  pro 
fessional  greeting,  ran  through  the  portfolio  quickly 
while  the  man  whom  he  had  addressed  presently  entered 
by  another  door,  paused  a  moment,  walked  round  them, 
and  passed  out  on  the  other  side. 

It  did  not  annoy  or  embarrass  Carey  as  it  once  would 


332  THE  AMATEUR 


have  done.  He  smiled  quietly  to  himself  and  picked  up 
his  portfolio  with  a  murmured  "Thank  you,"  as  the  Art 
Editor  commenced  to  recite  the  various  reasons  why,  just 
at  that  particular  time,  it  was  not  possible  to  give  him  a 
story  to  illustrate. 

Grimly,  determinedly,  he  went  the  rounds.  In  such 
places  where  the  story  connected  with  him  was  not 
known,  or  where  it  failed  to  be  associated  with  him,  he 
awakened  even  less  interest.  The  work  he  showed  was 
rubbed  and  dirty;  it  no  longer  had  the  appearance  of 
being  fresh.  Ben  Mercy  was  out,  but  Sherman  received 
him  cordially  enough.  He  referred  at  once  to  the  affair, 
inquiring  how  long  he  had  been  laid  up  in  the  hospital, 
and  expressing  his  concern  when  informed.  Carey  told 
him  the  whole  story,  told  it  between  innumerable  inter 
ruptions.  When  he  finished  it,  he  didn't  know  whether 
Sherman  was  convinced  or  not.  He  didn't  much  care.  He 
wanted  work,  and  Sherman  knew  what  he  could  do.  A 
commission  had  been  promised  him  two  years  ago. 

There  wasn't  a  manuscript  in  the  office,  Sherman  told 
him.  He  was  sorry.  He  remembered  having  promised 
Carey  a  story;  but  then  his  wonderful  popularity  had 
come  along,  and  no  one  wanted  any  ordinary  work  from 
him.  Sherman  would  look  round,  and,  if  anything  came 
along  that  he  thought  Carey  could  handle,  he  surely  would 
send  it  to  him. 

"I'd  hate  to  be  obliged  to  go  back  to  making  pretty- 
girl  heads  again,"  Carey  said,  half  whimsically,  half 
earnestly.  "I  hope  I've  put  that  kind  of  rotten  work 
behind  me  forever." 

Sherman  stroked  his  short,  grizzled  beard. 

"Mason  Edward  Camp  kind  of  broke  in  on  your  field, 
didn't  he?"  he  asked,  reflectively. 

"Yes,"  Carey  answered,  bitterly.     "I  told  him,  like  a 


THE  AMATEUR  333 


fool,  about  the  strawboard  I  used  and  how  I  mixed  my 
water  colours  one  night." 

"And  he  must  have  told  everybody  else,"  Sherman 
said,  wagging  his  head  up  and  down.  "They  all  trailed 
after  him;  we  had  more  girls'  heads  with  braided  red 
hair  done  on  strawboard  for  a  while  than  we  could 
shake  a  stick  at.  I  guess  that  was  while  you  were  laid 
up  in  the  hospital.  The  idea  became  a  drug  on  the  mar 
ket.  Now  it's  The  Merry  Widow  that  our  fickle  town 
has  gone  mad  about.  Since  that  new  opera  opened,  you 
find  people  talking  of  nothing  else.  New  York  seems 
to  be  afflicted  with  one  craze  after  another.  I  predict 
we'll  have  'Merry  Widow  hats,'  and  'Merry  Widow 
shoes,'  and  'Merry  Widow  clothes,'  just  as  your  name 
graced  our  apparel  so  short  a  time  ago.  We  seem  to  have 
caught  the  'Merry  Widow  fever'  on  the  rebound  from 
the  'Carey  Williams  infection/  We'll  be  sick  to  death  of 
this  waltz  music  in  three  months  and  ready  for  some  new 
fad.  You  ought  to  think  up  some  new  stunt." 

"But  I'm  tired  of  stunts,  Mr.  Sherman,"  Carey  said 
earnestly.  "I  want  to  succeed  by  conscientious  work. 
I  foresee  I'm  going  to  be  handicapped  by  the  false  story 
about  that  girl,  which  I  can't  explain  to  every  one  as  I 
have  to  you." 

As  he  was  speaking,  little  Jane  Boardman  entered  the 
office  and  placed  some  letters  on  Sherman's  desk  for  his 
signature.  It  was  evident  she  had  not  recognised  him, 
as  his  back  was  toward  the  door.  As  she  laid  the  mail 
on  Sherman's  desk,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  saw  him. 
Carey  was  unable  to  return  the  quick  bow  before  they 
were  lowered.  It  came  over  him  suddenly,  with  a  pang 
of  regret,  that  he  had  never  acknowledged  the  friendly 
letter  she  had  written  him  or  the  flowers  he  had  never 
seen.  She  had  been  one  of  the  few  who  had  thought  of 


334  THE  AMATEUR 


him  and  had  refused  to  believe  the  newspaper  stories 
about  the  betrayal  of  his  would-be  murderer's  daughter, 
her  old  friend,  Anna  Blanchard.  Hastily  he  tied  the 
strings  of  his  portfolio  and,  saying  good-bye  to  Sher 
man,  followed  Jane  out  into  the  hall.  But  she  had  disap 
peared  into  one  of  the  many  rooms  on  either  side  of  the 
long  corridor.  He  turned  and  passed  into  the  outer 
office,  pausing  a  moment  by  the  telephone  operator's  desk. 
It  was  the  same  girl  who  had  befriended  him  the  first  day 
he  had  called  there. 

"Will  you  tell  Miss  Boardman  that  Mr.  Williams 
would  like  to  speak  to  her  outside  here  in  the  waiting 
room  for  just  a  moment?'* 

He  bent  toward  the  operator  ingratiatingly. 

"Why,  certainly." 

There  was  a  rattle  of  plugs  and  tangled  ropes,  and 
presently  Carey  heard  her  repeating  his  message.  A 
moment  later  the  girl  herself  stood  on  the  threshold  of 
the  doorway,  her  head  a  little  to  one  side,  her  hand  on 
the  lintel,  pausing  a  moment  non-committally,  before  he 
addressed  her. 

Carey  stepped  forward,  holding  out  his  hand.  She 
accepted  it  with  the  same  reserved  manner. 

"Do  you  know  I've  been  out  of  the  hospital  just  a  few 
days  ?"  Carey  spoke  impulsively.  He  didn't  wait  for  her 
answer.  "The  note  and  the  flowers  you  sent  me  were 
the  nicest  things  that  happened  to  me,  during  five  months 
of  pain  and  misery.  I  was  out  of  my  head,  delirious  for 
a  number  of  weeks ;  I  never  saw  your  flowers;  the  note  I 
was  only  permitted  to  read  three  months  after  it  ar 
rived.  Every  day  I  intended  to  write  you.  .  .  .  But 
I  can't  explain  here.  What  time  is  it  now  ?  How  much 
longer  will  you  have  to  be  here  ?  No, — I'll  tell  you ;  I'll 


THE  AMATEUR  335 


wait  downstairs  for  you  until  you  are  through.  I  have 
much  I  must  talk  over  with  you." 

Jane  shook  her  head,  holding  up  her  hands  protest- 
ingly,  with  an  amused  smile  at  his  vehemence. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  began,  "Mr.  Sherman  will  need  me 
for  another  hour,  perhaps  longer.  I  don't  think  you  had 
better  wait." 

Carey  was  aware  the  telephone  operator  was  listening. 
He  glanced  resentfully  at  her  back.  Jane  followed  his 
eyes  and  he  caught  her  smiling.  With  a  quick  motion 
toward  the  street  and  am  emphatic  nod  of  his  head,  he 
held  out  his  hand  again. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "Some  other  time,  then.  Good 
night." 

He  opened  the  swing  gate  behind  him,  turning  to  catch 
her  eye  again.  With  uplifted  brows,  he  telegraphed  his 
interrogation,  pausing  an  instant  for  her  answer.  But  a 
sweet,  pleasant  smile  and  a  conventional  nod  of  the  head, 
which  might  have  meant  anything,  were  all  she  vouch 
safed.  Nevertheless,  he  decided  to  wait. 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  when  he  saw  her  leave  the 
elevator  inside  the  brilliantly-lit  foyer  of  the  big  office 
building  and  make  her  way  with  other  girls  toward  the 
street  entrance.  He  watched  her  turn  down  town  and, 
after  she  had  walked  half  a  block,  he  caught  up  with  her. 

"MissBoardman!" 

She  turned  toward  him,  surprised  and  a  little  reproach 
ful. 

"You  shouldn't  have  waited." 

"That  girl — the  operator — was  listening  to  what  we 
said.  I  really  must  have  a  chance  to  talk  with  you." 

"The  street  is  hardly  the  place,"  she  answered  pre 
cisely  ;  but  Carey  thought  he  caught  a  tone  of  relenting  in 
her  voice. 


336  THE  AMATEUR 


"Well,  may  I  call   .    .    ."he  began  tentatively. 

«I_I  don't  know,"  she  faltered.     "What  is  it?" 

They  fell  into  step  together,  both  a  trifle  embarrassed. 
Carey  tried  to  tell  her  again  of  his  appreciation  of  her 
note  and  flowers.  He  was  conscious  that  he  was  express 
ing  himself  clumsily  and  that  he  hesitated  awkwardly  as 
he  strove  for  the  right  words. 

"I  heard  you  were  dying,"  she  interrupted. 

"I  came  near  it  several  times." 

He  began  to  explain  how  sick  he  had  been,  but  it 
seemed  to  him  too  obvious  an  appeal  for  her  sympathy. 
He  stopped  in  confusion. 

They  had  reached  Union  Square.  Across  its  broad, 
leafless  area,  the  mighty  army  of  home-goers  poured,  a 
human  river,  hurrying  toward  its  south-easterly  end, 
where  the  subway  entrances  were  located  and  where 
stood  the  gate  to  that  seething,  congested  district  beyond, 
the  Ghetto.  It  was  like  some  gigantic  grain  hopper,  with 
the  individual  kernels  bobbing  and  skipping  about,  but  all 
being  sucked  into  the  yawning  mouth  of  the  funnel  at  the 
other  end.  Not  one  escaped.  The  river  flowed  on  un- 
brokenly,  undeviatingly.  It  was  like  the  flight  of  a  peo 
ple,  the  rout  of  an  army. 

Carey  and  Jane  stood  watching  the  spectacle  silently 
for  some  minutes ;  then  the  girl  turned  to  him,  with  hand 
outstretched. 

"This  is  my  street,"  she  said.  "I  live  just  a  few  doors 
beyond  Third  Avenue.  Good-night." 

"But  I'm  going  to  see  you  as  far  as  the  door,"  Carey 
protested. 

"It's  not  necessary,"  she  pleaded. 

"But  I  want  to." 

He  walked  beside  her  as  she  turned  down  Fifteenth 


THE  AMATEUR  337 


Street,  and  presently  they  stopped  in  front  of  a  rather 
dingy  but  brightly  lit  apartment  house. 

Carey  held  her  hand  a  moment  at  the  entrance. 

"May  I  come  to  see  you?" 

"If  you  like/'  Her  serious  face,  suddenly  illumined 
by  her  smile,  seemed,  so  Carey  thought,  both  beautiful 
and  appealing. 

"To-morrow  night?" 

"To-morrow?"  She  echoed  his  question,  gazing  up 
ward  thoughtfully,  the  smile  still  playing  about  the  cor 
ners  of  her  mouth.  "To-morrow,"  she  repeated,  "is  Fri 
day.  Yes, — 1  will  be  home." 

She  turned  swiftly  and  stepped  inside. 

Through  the  glass  door,  Carey  caught  sight  of  a  large, 
heavily-shawled  woman  and  the  straw  hood  of  a  peram 
bulator.  He  saw  Jane  speak  to  the  woman  and  bend 
over  the  baby  carriage.  Then  abruptly  she  disappeared. 

Carey  laid  in  a  supply  of  drawing  materials  the  fol 
lowing  morning  and  began  seriously  to  work  again. 
Walking  back  to  the  studio  after  leaving  Jane  Board- 
man  at  her  door,  he  decided  that  the  time  had  come  to 
begin  the  reconstruction  of  his  life.  In  another  month 
he  would  be  twenty-seven;  he  was  still  young,  and  he 
felt  confident  that  hard  work  and  right  living  would  soon 
eliminate  the  effect  of  the  year  or  so  of  recklessness. 
He  said  this  a  dozen  times  a  day,  to  reassure  himself 
that  it  could  be  done.  The  thought  most  encouraging  to 
him,  that  gave  him  strength  and  confidence,  that  placed 
the  hope  in  his  heart  that  it  was  possible  for  him  to  suc 
ceed  in  this  determination,  if  he  but  tried  hard  enough, 
was  the  memory  of  the  six  months  at  home  when  he  had 
stedfastly  remained  by  his  mother's  bedside,  faithful  to 
that  duty  to  the  last.  Six  months  was  not  so  very  long 


338  THE  AMATEUR 


a  time,  perhaps,  but,  to  an  eager  boy  as  young  as  he  was 
then,  it  had  been  a  test.  At  any  rate,  it  was  the  only 
test  he  had  ever  been  put  to  in  his  life  by  which  his 
will  power  might  be  gauged.  In  addition,  there  was  the 
satisfying  reflection  that  the  old  life  no  longer  seemed 
to  possess  any  fascination  for  him;  he  had  ceased  to 
crave  excitement ;  fast  living,  "going  the  pace"  contained 
no  lure  for  him;  the  thought  of  Myra,  memories  they 
must  always  share  together,  revolted  him. 

Carey  was  a  little  at  a  loss  to  understand  just  what  was 
the  reason  for  this  change  he  found  in  himself.  Re 
flecting  upon  the  matter,  he  decided  that  his  long  period 
of  pain  and  suffering  had  actually  purged  his  soul,  ruth 
lessly  uprooting  the  evil  within  him.  Now  his  natural 
cleanliness  of  nature  asserted  itself.  He  was  again  as  he 
had  been  as  a  boy  of  ten,  when  he  turned,  offended  and 
sickened,  from  the  corruption  of  his  school  companions. 

If  he  could  but  remain  so!  Could  retain  the  memory 
of  Death's  aspect,  with  which  he  had  grown  so  familiar! 
If  he  could  but  remember  always  the  way  he  had  felt 
when,  with  Death  standing  waiting  for  him,  the  things  of 
Life,  human  hopes  and  aspirations  and  preferences  and 
fears,  had  seemed  so  insignificant  and  of  such  small  ac 
count  ! 

He  refused  to  delude  himself  by  putting  too  much  faith 
in  this  distaste  for  sin.  He  recognised  his  own  weakness ; 
he  knew  the  stealthy  effect  of  the  hand  of  Time,  and  its 
easy  manipulation  of  memories.  Firmly,  constantly,  he 
told  himself  he  would  hold  before  him  this  determination 
to  live  decently  and  cleanly. 

But  Carey  had  a  harder  task  before  him  than  he  an 
ticipated.  He  found  that  it  is  one  thing  to  live  up 
rightly,  carried  along  on  the  wave-crest  of  prosperity;  it 


THE  AMATEUR  339 


is  another  when  the  combers  of  adversity  beat  relentlessly 
and  persistently  upon  one's  head. 

Carey  struggled  desperately  with  his  Art.  Whatever 
cunning  his  hand  had  once  possessed  seemed  to  have  been 
dissipated  on  his  pretty-girl  heads.  It  remained  for  him 
to  win  it  back.  He  reached  this  conclusion  toward  the 
close  of  the  first  day  on  which  he  had  begun  seriously 
to  work  again.  He  had  telephoned  for  a  model,  and, 
for  three  hours,  forced  himself  to  block  in  her  figure  in 
various  poses.  The  smartness,  the  precision  his  prelim 
inary  sketches  had  always  possessed  was  gone.  His  old 
weakness,  the  tightening  up  of  his  work,  he  knew  he 
should  have  to  compel  himself  to  correct,  after  he  had 
won  again  his  old  cleverness  at  laying  in  the  figure. 

It  was  a  pleasant  thought,  after  a  day  of  intent  ap 
plication,  to  remember  he  was  to  see  Jane  Boardman 
that  evening.  As  he  was  dressing,  adjusting  his  cravat 
about  his  collar,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  to  ask  him 
self  if  he  was  in  love  with  her.  He  paused  a  moment, 
his  fingers  arrested  in  their  operation.  Swiftly  his  mind 
shifted  to  Springer  and  Cecilia  and  the  supremely  happy, 
contented  picture  they  presented.  Jane  and  himself, 
somewhere  in  the  country?  It  was  not  an  unpleasant 
thought.  But,  however  interesting  the  idea  might  ap 
pear,  he  dismissed  it.  His  life  was  too  full,  too  compli 
cated,  he  was  too  intent  upon  his  own  regeneration  to 
consider  anything  so  serious  as  marriage.  Besides,  he 
was  "broke"  now.  It  would  be  a  long  time  before  he 
was  on  his  feet  again. 

Flights  of  cold  concrete  steps,  a  succession  of  un- 
painted  iron  railings,  led  him  on  and  on,  past  one  floor 
after  another.  Apartment  twenty-four  seemed  as  inac 
cessible,  with  the  muscles  of  his  legs  aching,  as  it  had 


340 


THE  AMATEUR 


done  when  he  first  began  to  climb.  Milk  bottles,  loaves 
of  bread,  stood  against  the  doors  of  the  various  apart 
ments.  Go-carts  or  baby  buggies  cluttered  the  landings. 
Many  of  the  doors  were  opened,  disclosing  congested 
interiors,  from  which  came  the  noise  of  running  water 
and  washing  dishes.  Young  girls  and  older  women  were 
continually  passing  up  and  down  the  steep,  narrow  stair 
case,  obliging  him  to  step  aside  and  lift  his  hat  as  they 
crowded  by.  A  mingling  of  varied  smells  pervaded  the 
entire  stair-well. 

Apartment  twenty- four  appeared,  as  he  reached  the 
door  bearing  that  numeral,  like  the  others  below.  Two 
clean,  empty  milk  bottles  stood  in  front  of  the  door,  but 
there  was  no  baby  carriage. 

Jane  herself  answered  his  ring.  He  could  see  that  she 
was  embarrassed  at  receiving  him  in  her  own  home ;  but 
she  was  cordial.  Carey  hung  his  coat  on  the  pegs  of  the 
wooden  rack  in  the  dark  hall  and  followed  her,  past 
several  closed  doors,  to  a  lighted  room  beyond.  This 
was  evidently  the  dining  room.  A  large,  square  table, 
covered  with  a  fringed  red  cloth,  stood  in  its  centre,  upon 
which  an  electric,  coloured-glass  drop-light  threw  a  bril 
liant  radiance.  A  linen-covered  couch,  with  a  high  roll 
ing  back,  faced  a  tall  walnut  cupboard  at  one  end  of  the 
room.  Between  them,  two  windows,  with  drawn  shades 
and  red  rep  curtains,  were  separated  by  an  umbrella  plant 
upon  a  tall,  iron  stand,  with  legs  of  gilt  scroll  work. 

Near  the  door,  in  a  wheel  chair,  his  feet  wrapped  in  a 
camel's  hair  shawl,  sat  a  large-framed  old  man,  with 
long,  flowing  white  hair  and  beard.  A  contrivance  at 
tached  to  the  chair  provided  him  with  a  table,  and  upon 
this  were  arranged  the  cards  of  his  solitaire.  He  gazed 
intently  at  Carey,  under  his  thick,  white  eyebrows,  as  the 
caller  entered  the  room. 


THE  AMATEUR  341 


"My  father,  Mr.  Williams/' 

Carey  stepped  forward  and  took  the  heavy  hand  in 
his;  but  the  old  man  gave  him  no  word  of  greeting  be 
yond  a  nod  of  his  benign  white  head.  A  door  opened, 
and  a  gentle-faced  woman  entered,  whose  hair  gave  the 
impression  of  being  equally  snowy  as  the  patriarch's. 
But  Carey,  as  he  was  presented,  noticed  that  it  was 
streaked  with  pale  yellow.  She  wore  it  parted  in  the 
middle  and  coiled  into  a  large  bun  at  the  back  of  the 
neck.  Her  dress  was  a  stiff  watered  silk,  tarnished  and 
shiny  in  spots,  but  there  was  a  touch  of  lace  at  the  throat. 
Mrs.  Boardman  possessed  a  certain  gentle  motherliness 
that  warmed  Carey's  heart  at  once.  She  had  some  letters 
to  write  and  was  going  to  an  early  bed.  She  pressed 
Carey's  hand  with  quaint  graciousness  and  bade  him,  in 
an  old-fashioned  way,  to  "make  himself  at  home!" 

Carey  and  Jane  sat  down  on  the  linen-covered  sofa; 
but,  almost  at  once,  their  tentative  attempt  to  begin  their 
conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  other 
members  of  the  family.  The  dining-room,  in  which  they 
sat,  and  the  adjoining  kitchen  were,  evidently,  the  only 
living  rooms.  The  others  in  the  apartment  were  needed 
as  bedrooms.  Two  boys,  palpably  twins,  about  twelve 
years  old,  entered  from  the  kitchen,  where  they  had  been 
studying  their  lessons,  and  kissed  their  father  good-night. 
They  still  carried  their  books  under  their  arms.  They 
were  black-haired,  black-eyed,  neat-appearing  lads,  who 
resembled  Jane  both  in  face  and  manner. 

The  last  member  of  the  family  to  be  presented  to  Carey 
was  Jane's  older  brother,  Horace.  It  was  after  nine 
o'clock  when  he  came  in  from  the  street,  tired  and  out 
of  breath  from  the  hurried  stair-climb.  He  had  a  pale 
complexion  and  affected  sideburns,  which  made  him  ap- 


342 


THE  AMATEUR 


pear  older  than  he  was.  Carey  knew  that  he  worked  as 
a  compositor  with  the  Methodist  Book  Concern. 

"Over-time  again  to-night,"  he  said  wearily.  "It's  the 
fourth  night  this  week !" 

Jane  suggested  a  cup  of  coffee.  It  would  take  her  but 
a  moment  to  make  it,  she  urged. 

Carey  saw  the  brother's  eyes  shift  in  hesitation  toward 
him.  It  was  not  difficult  to  read  what  was  passing  in  his 
mind. 

"I'd  like  a  cup  myself,"  Carey  volunteered,  "if  you 
don't  mind  making  it." 

Jane  jumped  up  jubilantly,  and  the  three  passed  into 
the  kitchen.  All  of  them  felt  freer  out  of  the  presence 
of  the  taciturn,  white-crowned  monarch,  who  tirelessly 
pursued  his  silent  game  of  cards. 

The  kitchen  was  scrupulously  clean.  The  linoleum- 
covered  floor,  the  white  wood-work,  the  range,  sink,  and 
even  the  walls,  shone  from  excessive  scrubbing.  Carey 
noticed  that  the  usual  row  of  stirring  spoons,  hand-mops, 
strainers  and  egg-beaters,  that  hung  above  the  sinks  in 
most  kitchens,  was  missing  here.  There  was  not  even 
an  inverted  dishpan  beneath  the  bright  nickel  faucets  of 
the  sink,  or  a  wet  dish-cloth  drying  upon  its  broad, 
wooden  rim.  There  was  an  air  of  space,  of  comfort,  of 
neatness  about  the  room. 

He  could  not  refrain  from  commenting  upon  it. 

"We  have  to  use  this  room  so  much,"  Jane  said  sim 
ply,  "that  mother  has  to  keep  things  put  away.  This  is 
the  only  room  we  have  that  gets  any  sun  to  speak  of,  and 
father  spends  most  of  the  day  in  here." 

Carey  and  Horace  both  sat  on  the  kitchen  table,  smok 
ing,  watching  Jane  as  she  produced  and  filled  the  coffee 
pot,  lit  the  gas  stove,  sliced  bread,  and  adjusted  the  wire 
contrivance  over  the  hissing  blue  flame  for  the  toast. 


THE  AMATEUR  343 


Condensed  cream,  sugar,  and  a  roll  of  butter  made  their 
appearance,  and  Carey  and  Horace  had  to  find  chairs 
while  the  table  was  being  set.  Carey  marvelled  at  the 
girl's  speed,  her  assurance,  her  deftness.  Not  once  did 
she  make  an  unnecessary  motion. 

Presently  they  were  all  sitting  about  the  table,  drinking 
what  both  men  pronounced  to  be  perfect  coffee,  and  bit 
ing  into  crisp,  hot,  buttered  toast.  It  was  very  pleasant 
and  companionable,  and  Carey  felt  that  he  was  enjoying 
himself  hugely. 

Horace,  a  little  later,  said  good-night,  and  Carey  and 
Jane  settled  down  for  a  memorable  talk. 

At  once  their  conversation  reverted  to  Anna,  and  Jane 
told  him  how  she  had  consented  to  take  a  small  class  of 
boys  in  St.  George's  Sunday  School,  and  had  first  met 
her  there  as  a  fellow  teacher. 

By  some  subtle  intimation,  the  girl  conveyed  to  him  the 
fact  that  she  knew  of  Jerry  Hart's  part  in  the  circum 
stances  that  had  culminated  in  Anna's  suicide,  and 
frankly  advanced  the  theory,  which  had  never  before  oc 
curred  to  him,  that,  in  her  opinion,  Jerry  had  not  been 
wholly  to  blame.  Gossip,  implicating  Carey  as  the  one 
responsible  for  her  friend's  tragic  death,  she  had  always 
emphatically  denied,  resenting  the  outrageous  injustice 
of  it.  She  confessed,  rather  naively,  that  she  had  been 
twitted  by  her  friends  for  this  championship,  particu 
larly  after  he  had  made  his  great  success.  But  she  had 
been  glad  she  had  taken  his  part,  when  the  insane  old 
father  had  shot  him  down.  At  the  time,  she  had  been 
greatly  excited,  for  she  feared  Carey  would  die,  and  she 
would  be  called  in,  perhaps,  as  a  witness  for  the  prose 
cution.  When  she  learned  that  he  had  a  good  chance  to 
recover,  she  had  been  so  relieved  that  she  sent  the  note 
and  the  flowers. 


344  THE  AMATEUR 


Once  more  Carey  tried  to  speak  of  his  appreciation  of 
her  thoughtful  kindness.  He  wanted  her  to  understand 
what  her  words  of  sympathy  had  meant  to  him,  coming 
as  they  did  at  a  psychological  moment.  Unconsciously 
he  found  himself  telling  her  of  his  days  of  suffering  in 
the  hospital.  They  were  still  too  recent  to  be  described 
without  emotion  which  the  girl  saw  he  had  no  intention 
of  betraying.  An  expression  of  intense  feeling,  a  sym 
pathetic  twitching  of  her  face,  brought  him  to  an  abrupt 
stop  and  a  hurried  apology.  He  was  ashamed  to  realise 
how  much  he  had  let  himself  go.  Somehow,  no  one  else 
had  seemed  to  understand  what  he  had  endured,  not  even 
Joe  Downer,  who  had  been  with  him  from  day  to  day. 

He  rose  to  go,  surprised  to  find  that  it  was  past  eleven. 
In  the  dining  room  they  found  the  white-haired  giant  still 
intent  upon  his  game.  With  the  same  cold  dignity,  he 
bowed  his  magnificent  head  as  Carey  said  good-night. 
During  the  entire  evening  he  had  not  spoken. 

At  the  door  of  the  apartment,  Carey  lingered  a  few 
moments,  loath  to  terminate  the  talk  that  had  been  so  ab 
sorbing,  searching  his  mind  for  some  plan  to  suggest  an 
other  meeting.  His  evenings  at  The  Rembrandt  Studios 
were  inexpressibly  lonely,  and  he  foresaw  that  many  of 
them  might  be  spent  pleasantly  in  Jane's  company. 

"Do  you  suppose  your  mother  would  object  to  letting 
you  go  to  the  theatre  with  me,  some  time?"  he  asked, 
hesitatingly. 

She  dropped  her  serious  manner,  but  the  air  of  co 
quetry  assumed  was  easily  recognisable  as  a  shield  for 
embarrassment.  As  there  was  no  answer  forthcoming, 
Carey  pressed  his  point. 

"How  about  it  ?  I  like  better  to  go  on  Saturday  nights 
than  at  any  other  time  of  the  week.  How  about  to 
morrow  night?  Have  you  seen  The  Merry  Widow?" 


THE  AMATEUR  345 


She  looked  at  him  swiftly,  non-committally. 

"Then  I'll  get  seats  at  the  New  Amsterdam,"  he  said 
decisively.  "I'll  come  for  you  round  seven- thirty ;  and 
tell  your  mother  I'll  take  good  care  of  you.  Good-night !" 

He  held  out  his  hand,  smiling  happily  at  the  pleasant 
prospect  for  the  next  evening.  Jane  placed  her  fingers  in 
his  and  their  hands  clung  together  for  a  brief  moment. 
A  sudden  thrill  ran  through  Carey,  and  he  saw  a  warm 
flush  rising  in  the  girl's  cheeks.  A  swift  desire  to  draw 
her  to  him  and  take  her  in  his  arms  suddenly  possessed 
him.  But,  in  that  instant,  she  abruptly  withdrew  her 
hand  and  stepped  back  into  the  doorway. 

"Good-night,"  she  whispered.  Then,  her  face  breaking 
into  the  smile  he  found  so  charming,  she  added : 

"To-morrow  ...   at  seven-thirty." 

There  was  a  last  glance  and  the  door  shut. 

Carey  ran  happily  downstairs. 

She  was  a  charming  girl.  He  had  never  met  one  so 
delightfully  balanced.  She  was  capable,  serious,  amus 
ing,  beautiful,  an  excellent  office  worker,  a  fine  cook,  the 
delight  of  her  family — that  was  evident — and  a  staunch, 
loyal  friend. 

All  the  way  home — he  walked  the  distance  to  The 
Rembrandt  Studios,  for  the  night  was  clear  and  crisp,  a 
night  for  rapid  walking — he  whistled  merrily.  Life  did 
not  present  such  a  dismal  prospect  after  all.  If  he  could 
catch  on  with  his  work  again,  if  he  could  master  his  Art 
once,  he  might  be  very  happy  indeed,  chumming  about  the 
city  with  a  companion  so  delightful.  He  paused  in  his 
whistling  a  moment  to  smile  happily  to  himself  at  the 
possibilities  of  Coney  Island  in  such  company.  They 
would  have  some  jolly  excursions  together. 

A  vision  of  her  in  her  own  home  rose  before  him — 
the  humble  furnishings  and  crowded  quarters ;  her  grim, 


346  THE  AMATEUR 


taciturn,  crippled  father  always  listening  silently  to  what 
others  might  be  saying,  always  in  the  way;  her  gentle, 
quiet,  unostentatious  mother;  her  journeyman  brother; 
the  missing  luxury  of  cream;  the  milk  bottles  at  the  door, 
and  the  smelly,  noisy  apartment  house. 

"And  not  once  did  she  apologise  for  anything!"  Un 
consciously  he  spoke  aloud.  "The  little  lady!"  he  said 
admiringly. 

Carey  applied  himself  with  more  concentration  to  his 
work  than  he  had  ever  done  before.  He  rose  early  in  the 
morning  and  was  bending  over  his  drawing  board  by 
nine  o'clock.  At  twelve,  he  cooked  himself  some  eggs 
over  the  gas-burner  in  the  kitchenette,  brewed  a  pot  of 
tea,  and  by  one  o'clock  he  was  at  work  again,  steadily 
forcing  his  hand  to  go  from  one  operation  to  another 
until  about  four  o'clock,  when  the  light  began  to  fade. 
He  was  weary  then,  fagged  out  both  in  mind  and  body, 
and  his  couch  generally  provided  a  grateful  spot  for  an 
hour's  relaxed  sleep. 

But  his  work  aggravated  him  more  and  more  each 
day.  He  saw  the  things  in  his  mind  he  wanted  to  draw ; 
but  his  hand  refused  to  execute  them.  In  a  measure, 
his  old  ability  rapidly  to  block  in  a  subject  returned  to 
him;  as  he  hoped,  this  came  with  practice;  but  now  his 
drawing  seemed  weak  and  characterless ;  it  had  no  snap, 
there  was  no  continuity  in  its  composition.  Comparing 
it  with  his  earlier  work,  it  appeared  to  him  neither  better 
nor  worse;  rather,  he  tried  to  convince  himself,  his  eyes 
were  opened  now  to  the  imperfections  of  his  art,  he  could 
see  its  faults,  and  there  remained  but  to  find  a  way  to 
rectify  them.  This,  assuredly,  must  come  with  hard 
work ;  one  was  bound  to  accomplish  big  things  with  hard 
work !  Grimly  he  persevered  from  day  to  day,  finishing 


THE  AMATEUR  347 


one  drawing  and  at  once  beginning  another.  The  sheets 
of  the  heavy  board  he  used,  turned  face  to  the  wall,  grew 
into  cumbersome  stacks  that  he  was  forever  readjusting, 
repiling,  moving  to  other  parts  of  the  room. 

The  evenings  and  Sundays  he  spent  with  Jane  Board- 
man  were  very  pleasant.  Outside  of  his  work,  they  sup 
plied  his  only  interest.  She  was  most  companionable  and 
always  in  buoyant  spirits;  but  it  was  in  the  understand 
ing  sympathy  she  gave  him  that  he  found  the  greatest 
satisfaction.  Never  did  she  fail  to  say  the  word  that 
conveyed  to  him  the  positive  knowledge  that  she  had 
caught  to  a  shade  the  meaning  of  his  thought,  or  had 
grasped  to  a  nicety  his  need  for  an  expression  of  that 
sympathy  he  grew  daily  to  depend  upon  more  and  more. 

It  was  inevitable  that  this  intimacy  should  lead  Carey 
to  a  declaration  of  love.  He  had  often  told  girls  he  had 
known — 'girls  with  whom  he  had  been  intimate  back 
home — that  he  loved  them.  When  he  had  attended  the 
Art  School  he  had  always  been  in  love  with  one  girl  or 
another.  Making  love  was  an  exciting  business,  but  he 
was  far  from  considering  himself  as  being  really  in  love 
with  Jane.  He  loved  her — but  he  was  not  in  love  with 
her.  That  kind  of  love  meant  marriage  and  he  had  not 
the  remotest  idea  of  such  a  possibility.  It  had  occurred 
to  him  that  day  when  he  was  dressing  to  make  his  first 
call  upon  her  and  he  had  amused  himself  by  allowing 
his  imagination  to  dwell  upon  it,  but  he  had  never  con 
templated  the  matter  for  a  moment  seriously.  It  would 
interfere  with  his  Art,  and  his  profession  was  the  thing 
nearest  and  dearest  to  him.  He  loved  little  Jane  Board- 
man  more  than  any  girl  he  had  ever  known.  Of  that  he 
was  quite  certain  and  he  was  eager  to  tell  her  so. 

The  confession  came  one  cold  Sunday  in  December, 
when  they  had  spent  the  day  at  the  Bronx  Zoo  and,  tir- 


348  THE  AMATEUR 


ing  of  the  animals,  had  walked  out  over  the  Park,  along 
winding  roads,  frozen  hard,  with  white,  brittle  ice  in  the 
ruts  where  water  had  gathered.  There  was  no  one  in 
sight,  for  it  was  turning  cold,  and  there  was  a  nimble 
winter  wind.  It  was  hardly  a  day  for  love-making  but 
Carey  found  the  words  came  as  readily  to  his  lips  as  a 
much  less  significant  statement  might  have  done.  It  was 
a  thrilling  experience  to  tell  her  he  loved  her  and  to 
watch  the  effect  of  his  words.  Did  she  love  him?  What 
was  the  good  of  loving  if  it  was  not  returned?  Was 
there  any  one  else  ?  Didn't  she  care  for  him  a  little  ?  He 
tried  hard  to  make  her  answer  his  questions  but  only  par 
tially  succeeded. 

That  night,  on  the  landing  before  the  door  of  the 
apartment,  he  kissed  her  for  the  first  time.  He  did  it 
very  tenderly,  very  gently,  gathering  her  in  his  arms, 
pressing  her  strongly  to  him,  while  his  love  for  her  rose 
up  in  his  heart,  welling  over,  possessing  him  completely. 

It  was  not  until  a  number  of  days  after  this  that  the 
idea  of  marrying  Jane  first  occurred  seriously  to  Carey. 
He  was  walking  down  Broadway,  his  mind  busy  with  the 
thought  of  the  girl  who  had  come  into  his  life,  compli 
cating  it,  disturbing  him.  It  occurred  to  him  that  it  was 
a  contemptible  thing  to  make  her  learn  to  love  him  if  he 
was  not  in  earnest  himself.  Indignation  rose  within  him 
at  this  self -accusation.  He  was  incapable  of  such  mean 
ness!  Why — why,  he  loved  her! 

Suddenly  the  air  reverberated  with  the  words.  Up 
toward  the  blue  sky,  beyond,  above,  higher  still  than  the 
gaunt,  cold  steel  and  concrete  buildings  of  the  city,  were 
flung  the  words  that  rioted  in  his  mind  and  heart  as  their 
import  first  flashed  into  his  consciousness.  He  loved 
her!  He  loved  little  Jane  Boardman!  In  his  heart,  whose 
pure  emotions  he  had  abused,  whose  sanctity  he  had  de- 


THE  AMATEUR  349 


graded,  there  had  been  born  a  great  passion.  It  came 
to  few.  The  marvel  had  come  to  him, — to  him!  Un 
worthy  as  he  might  be,  weighted  down  as  he  was  with  the 
memory  of  his  recent  profligacy,  yet,  as  a  dove  folding 
its  white  wings  and  nestling  there,  love  had  fluttered 
down  from  somewhere  out  of  the  world  and  alighted 
within  him.  The  tears  rushed  into  his  eyes  and  he 
clenched  his  teeth.  Marry  her?  Why,  good  God,  he'd 
die  for  her!  His  Jane — his  girl — nobody  else's!  She 
had  been  intended  for  him  and  he  for  her  since  the  day 
they  had  been  born.  A  mighty  sword  rent  the  curtain  that 
hung  before  his  eyes,  and  he  saw,  beyond,  that  country 
in  whose  existence  he  had  never  before  believed.  And 
there  was  Springer,  smiling  and  holding  out  his  hand. 
The  miracle  had  happened ;  Carey,  in  that  moment,  joined 
the  company  of  the  lovers  of  the  world. 

That  same  evening,  when  Jane  came  out  of  the  build 
ing  in  which  the  offices  of  the  Consolidated  Press  Asso 
ciation  were  located,  she  found  Carey  waiting  for  her. 
Something  in  his  expression  made  her  inquire  anxiously : 

"What  is  it,  Carey?     Anything  wrong?" 

He  shook  his  head,  half  smiling,  and  slipped  his  hand 
under  her  elbow;  together  they  started  to  walk  down 
Fourth  Avenue. 

"Where  shall  we  go  to-night?"  Carey  demanded. 
"I've  got  a  lot  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

"What  is  it,  Carey?  What  has  happened?"  She  was 
all  solicitude. 

"Nothing,  nothing,  my  darling.  I've  just  realised  how 
much  I  love  you.  I  have  a  number  of  things  to  tell  you. 
Where  can  we  go  to  talk  ?  Let's  have  dinner  somewhere, 
and  take  a  long  walk  afterwards." 

He  accompanied  Jane  to  her  home  and  waited  while 


350 


THE  AMATEUR 


she  put  on  a  fresh  linen  collar  and  changed  her  hat. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  Boardman  apartment  was  always 
cheerful  and  heartening.  The  old  white-haired  giant, 
Jane's  father,  and  Carey  had  developed  a  genuine  liking 
for  one  another.  Although  the  former  rarely  spoke — and 
when  he  did,  it  was  in  a  deep  bass,  half  rumble,  half 
growl — Carey  felt  no  constraint  when  he  was  with  him, 
and  often  caught  the  sharp  twinkle  under  the  white,  bushy 
eyebrows  that  told  him  that  his  meaning  had  been  under 
stood,  his  jest  appreciated,  his  sentiments  approved. 
They  had  a  secret  understanding  with  one  another  that 
no  one  else  shared. 

Carey  and  Jane  had  dinner  at  Guffanti's  on  Seventh 
Avenue,  where  an  excellent  Italian  table  d'hote  dinner 
was  served  for  the  moderate  price  of  seventy-five  cents. 
It  was  crowded  and  noisy,  but,  sitting  at  one  of  the  small 
side  tables,  they  were  entirely  lost  in  the  throng  of  diners 
and  could  speak  as  confidentially  as  they  wished  without 
fear  of  being  overheard. 

Carey  poured  out  his  love  to  Jane  as  he  never  had  be 
fore.  His  eloquence  seemed  miserably  inadequate  to 
him,  but  he  was  gratified  in  a  measure  to  observe  its  ef 
fect  upon  her. 

"Carey,  do  you  really  love  me  that  much?" 

"Sweetheart,  it's  more  than  I  can  express,  but  I'll  show 
you  a  devotion  when  we're  married  that  will  satisfy  you, 
no  matter  how  exacting  you  may  be." 

Jane  absently  toyed  with  the  silverware,  making  vague 
patterns  on  the  table  cloth  with  the  prong  of  her  fork, 
but  her  lover  saw  the  heightened  colour  in  her  face. 

"Carey,"  she  asked,  in  some  hesitation  and  confu 
sion,  "when  did  you  first  begin  to  care?" 

"On  that  excursion  boat,  I  guess,"  he  answered 
thoughtfully,  "but  I  was  too  much  of  a  simpleton  to  real- 


THE  AMATEUR  351 


ise  it,  then.  It  was  to-day,  for  the  first  time,  that  it  sud 
denly  came  over  me  how  much  you  really  mean  to  me." 

There  was  still  something  constrained  in  Carey's  man 
ner.  Usually  they  liked  to  loiter  over  their  dinner;  but, 
to-night,  he  was  anxious  to  terminate  it  as  soon  as  the 
coffee  was  served. 

"I  can't  talk  in  here,"  he  said.  "I've  got  to  get  out  in 
the  street  where  we  can  talk  as  we  walk  along." 

They  presently  found  themselves  outside  in  the  cold 
confusion  of  the  winter  streets.  It  was  a  fortnight  be 
fore  Christmas,  and  the  small  shops  that  crowded  each 
other  on  either  side  of  the  wide  avenue  were  all  brightly 
lighted.  Christmas  greens  hung  in  the  windows,  whose 
glass  panes  were  half-suffused  with  queer  patterns  of 
frost.  Mounds  of  snow  banked  the  sidewalks,  awaiting 
the  coming  of  the  street  cleaners,  and  sections  of  the 
pavements  not  as  yet  shovelled  clear  were  covered  with 
a  three-inch  packing  of  snow,  trodden  into  a  hard, 
smooth,  slippery  surface. 

Carey  and  Jane  crossed  the  Avenue  and  turned  down 
a  side  street,  where  there  were  fewer  people  and  more 
shadow.  They  were  obliged  to  walk  briskly,  because  the 
cold  was  sharp.  When  they  reached  Fifth  Avenue,  they 
unconsciously  turned  north  on  the  deserted  thorough 
fare,  as  its  sidewalks  were  thoroughly  cleaned  of  the 
snow  and  the  walking  was  good. 

"Jane,"  Carey  began,  "I  can't  marry  you  without  tell 
ing  you  what  a  rotter  I've  been.  I  love  you  too  deeply, 
too  earnestly  to  deceive  you — about  anything.  Success 
came  too  rapidly  to  me,  I  guess.  I  thought  all  this  out 
while  I  lay  awake  at  night  in  the  hospital.  I  got  a  true 
picture  of  myself,  of  what  I  was,  and  no  one  will  know 
what  agonies  of  remorse  I've  suffered — and,  since  I've 
come  to  realise  how  desperately  I  love  you,  it's  all  the 


352  THE  AMATEUR 

worse.  There  wasn't  a  more  contemptible,  unsufferably 
conceited  man  in  this  whole  city  than  I  a  year  ago ! " 

"I  won't  have  you  say  such  things  about  yourself," 
she  interrupted  indignantly. 

"My  dear,  you  didn't  know  me  then,  thank  God.  You 
wouldn't  have  loved  me;  you'd  have  hated  me.  My 
head  was  turned  with  the  money  I  made  so  easily,  and  I 
squandered  it  like  the  besotted  ass  I  was.  My  God,  Jane ! 
If  I  could  only  wipe  out  the  memory  of  those  days  of 
debauchery !" 

They  walked  along  silently  for  half  a  block. 

"I  don't  know  how  much  of  the  world  you  know/' 
Carey  stiffened  himself  to  say  what  he  had  determined 
to  tell  her,  "but  you  may  take  my  word  of  honour  that 
I've  lived  on  the  whole  a  cleaner  life  than  most  men.  I 
have  no  reason  ever  to  be  ashamed  to  look  my  children 
in  the  face.  My  record,  as  far  as  that  goes,  is  a  square 
one,  a  clean  one,  but — 'I've  got  to  tell  you,  that  .  .  . 
with  women  .  .  .  I've  acted  like  other  men  ...  I 
can't  marry  you  unless  you  know  .  .  .  for  three 
months  just  before  Blanchard  shot  me,  I  ...  there 
was  a  woman  .  .  ." 

Jane  interrupted  him. 

"Please  don't  go  on,"  she  said,  nervously  and  in  a 
troubled  voice.  "You've  told  me  all  I  have  a  right  to 
know — all  I  want  to  know.  I  know  something  of  men's 
lives, — I've  talked  with  my  father, — I've  talked  with  him 
about  you.  He's  a  great,  wise  man, — my  father  is,  and 
I  love  him  with  my  whole  heart.  He  has  told*me  many 
things,  only  some  of  which  I  understand ;  but,  whether  I 
understand  them  or  not,  I  believe  them  to  be  true.  He 
told  me  that,  if  you  were  the  right  kind  of  man  and  really 
loved  me,  you  would  tell  me  about  yourself — and  the 
kind  of  a  man  you  have  been.  But  he  warned  me  not 


THE  AMATEUR  353 


to  allow  you  to  tell  me  more  than — any  specific  instances, 
I  mean, — and — and  I  know  he  is  right.  I  cannot  reconcile 
the  different  codes  of  morals  between  men  and  women. 
I — I  know  a  man's  is  not  the  same  as  a  woman's.  I 
don't  pretend  to  understand  it,  to  approve  or  condone  it. 
It  is  a  great  pity  that  it  is  so — that  it  is  wrong.  But  I 
cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  hold  you  personally  respon 
sible  for  what  I,  differently  sexed,  might  equally  be  guilty 
of." 

Jane  paused  a  moment.  They  had  reached  a  crossing, 
and  waited  for  a  motor  to  pass.  When  she  spoke  again, 
her  voice  was  low  and  constrained. 

"It's — it's  only  the  children  I  am  thinking  of   .    .    ." 

Carey,  in  turn,  interrupted. 

"No — no,  Jane!  I'd  tell  you  if  it  were  so!  Believe 
me,  Jane, — I  pledge  you  my  sacred  word  of  honour!" 

"Then  that  is  all  I  wish  to  know, — that  is  what  I 
have  been  dreading  all  these  weeks  since  I  began  to  real 
ise  how  much  I  loved  you.  Don't  tell  me  anything  more. 
It  would  spoil  my  romance.  I  should  never  forget  what 
ever  you  told  me,  and  it  would  haunt  me  the  rest  of  my 
life.  I  prefer  not  to  know.  Please,  Carey,  please.  I'm 
sure  I  am  right,  even  if  my  father  hadn't  advised  me." 

Carey  walked  beside  her  without  answering.  It  would 
have  relieved  his  mind  and  troubled  conscience  if  he  could 
have  told  her  of  his  relations  with  Myra.  And  yet  he 
could  see  that  such  a  confession  would  always  trouble 
her.  He  was  moved  too  profoundly  by  her  sweetness  to 
press  the  point.  He  was  only  too  ready  to  turn  from  the 
arduous  duty  he  had  decided  to  compel  himself  to  per 
form,  and,  with  a  free  heart  and  mind,  to  tell  her  again, 
for  the  thousandth  time  that  night,  how  much  he  loved 
her. 


354  THE  AMATEUR 


It  was  all  wonderful :  the  winter  heavens,  the  winter 
streets,  the  hint  of  Christmas  in  the  air,  they  two,  in  such 
supreme  accord,  in  such  perfect  companionship,  in  such 
divine,  intoxicating  love. 


CHAPTER    III 


AREY  and  Jane  were  married  at  seven  o'clock  in 
the  evening  of  St.  Valentine's  Day,  in  St.  George's 
Church.  After  the  ceremony,  there  was  a  supper  served 
in  the  tiny  dining  room  of  the  Boardman  apartment. 
Only  Joe  Downer  and  a  girl  friend  of  Jane's  had  been 
invited,  as  it  was  impossible  to  seat  more  about  the  table. 
Old  Mr.  Boardman  had  been  unable  to  go  to  the  church, 
but,  when  the  newly  married  pair  came  running  up  the 
long  flight  of  stairs  in  advance  of  the  others,  they  found 
him  at  the  head  of  the  table,  sharpening  a  great  carving 
knife  preparatory  to  dismembering  the  two  cold  roast 
chickens  before  him.  Mysteriously  he  had  produced  a 
quart  of  champagne  that  stood  nearby  in  a  bucket  of  ice, 
attaining  a  proper  degree  of  coldness.  As  his  daughter 
entered,  he  laid  down  the  knife  and  steel  and  took  her 
into  the  mighty  embrace  of  his  great  arms.  Down  the 
bridge  of  his  nose  Carey  noticed  one  tear  trickle ;  it  was 
the  only  sign  of  emotion  he  had  ever  seen  on  the  face 
of  the  silent,  grim  giant. 

Springer  and  Cecilia  had  been  at  the  church ;  Mark  Har 
rison,  Doctor  Floherty,  McNeil  and  French  were  there, 
and  Carey  thought  he  recognised,  in  two  bulging  black 
figures  who  sat  behind  the  others,  aloof  and  apart,  Mrs. 
Fillmore  and  Miss  Watt.  He  had  been  very  much  ex 
cited,  horribly  conscious  that  his  white  vest  would  not 

355 


356  THE  AMATEUR 


stay  down  as  he  pulled  it,  and  that  his  tie  was  climbing 
his  collar  in  back,  and  that  his  hair,  that  he  had  so  care 
fully  brushed,  was  badly  mussed.  He  was  not  at  all 
ready  when  the  clergyman  began  : 

"Dearly  Beloved,  we  are  gathered  together  here  in  the 
sight  of  God  and  in  the  face  of  this  company " 

All  through  the  service  he  kept  repeating  silently  to 
himself,  "I'm  being  married ! — I'm  being  married ! — I'm 
being  married." 

Jane,  her  head  a  trifle  bent,  appeared  as  calm  and  as 
self-contained  as  the  minister  himself.  He  caught  sight 
of  the  tip  of  her  nose,  the  curve  of  her  cheek,  the  point 
of  her  chin,  beneath  the  edge  of  the  flowered  hat  she 
wore,  and  it  abruptly  came  over  him  how  dearly  he  loved 
her.  Suddenly  the  voice  of  the  priest  changed  from  the 
solemn  enunciation  of  the  service  to  one  of  easy  conver 
sation.  Carey  realised  he  was  being  congratulated.  It 
was  all  over;  he  and  Jane  were  man  and  wife. 

The  supper  party  was  not  as  gay  and  festive  as  Carey 
would  have  liked.  Jane  and  her  mother  sat  beside  one 
another,  silently  holding  hands,  both  conscious  of  their 
swiftly  approaching  parting.  Old  Mr.  Boardman  pre 
sided,  taciturn  as  usual,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  slicing 
the  chicken,  leaning  forward  to  inspect  the  plates  of  the 
party,  nodding  to  Horace  to  fill  some  glass  that  was 
growing  empty.  Jane's  girl  friend  and  Joe  Downer 
maintained  a  feeble  interchange  of  banalities,  while  the 
twins  furnished  a  slight  element  of  festivity  by  threat 
ening  Carey  with  rice,  old  shoes  and  tin  cans  tied  to  the 
axle  of  the  taxi-cab  that  was  waiting  below,  unless  he 
agreed  to  be  blackmailed  to  the  extent  of  ten  cents  a 
head.  Matters  were  not  improved  by  the  arrival  of 
neighbours  who  confessed  with  unctuous  good  humour 
that  they  just  had  to  come  in  and  kiss  the  bride  be- 


THE  AMATEUR  357 


fore  her  new  husband  carried  her  off.  Their  presence 
helped,  however,  to  make  the  parting  between  Jane  and 
her  mother  less  tearful  than  it  otherwise  might  have  been. 
Somehow,  the  good-byes  were  said;  Carey's  hand  was 
wrung  and  good  luck  wished  him;  Jane's  gentle  mother 
drew  his  head  down  upon  her  shoulder,  rumpling  his 
hair,  while  brokenly  she  urged  him  to  take  "good  care 
of  her  little  girl/'  The  twins  and  Joe  and  Horace  car 
ried  their  two  suit-cases,  a  belated  wedding  gift,  and  a 
large  hat  box  down  to  the  taxi-cab  in  the  street.  To 
gether,  Jane  and  Carey  began  the  descent  of  the  long, 
cold  stone  stairs,  a  trying  ordeal,  for  every  one  in  the 
building  seemed  waiting  to  see  them  make  what  was 
termed  their  "get-away."  Carey  could  hear  voices  call 
ing  to  one  another  below : 

"Here  they  comer 

"The  bride  and  groom're  coming!" 

"Bessie — Bessie !  Oo-hoo,  Bessie !  Come  quick !  Here 
they  come!" 

They  were  stopped  at  landing  after  landing,  while 
Jane's  hand  was  pressed  and  she  was  kissed  by  the  more 
impetuous.  An  occasional  handful  of  rice  followed 
them,  and  there  was  a  general  hub-bub  of  laughter  and 
shrill  cries. 

A  small  crowd  waited  outside  in  the  street.  Horace 
held  open  the  door  of  the  cab,  and  Carey  and  Jane  made 
a  quick  run  for  its  sheltering  protection.  A  roar  broke 
from  the  crowd,  and  Carey  found  himself  thankful  that 
he  had  married  a  nimble  woman,  for  Jane  tripped  into 
the  dark  interior  of  the  taxi  with  hardly  a  second's  delay, 
and  Carey  had  only  to  pause  the  instant  before  he  leaped 
in  beside  her.  The  door  slammed ;  he  heard  Joe's  voice 
shouting  his  name;  the  taxi  lurched  and  lumbered  over 
the  broken  surface  of  the  street.  A  face  leered  in  at 


358  THE  AMATEUR 


them  through  the  window,  and  Carey  swiftly  pulled  the 
shade  over  it.  The  impact  of  three  missiles  striking*  the 
back  of  the  taxi  brought  from  Jane  a  terrified : 

"Carey !    They're  stoning  us !" 

Her  confident  husband  laughed. 

"Those  are  old  shoes,  my  darling.  They're  wishing 
us  luck!" 

Jane  had  a  friend  about  her  own  age  who  lived  with  a 
chaperon,  governess,  companion — a  personage  combin 
ing  all  these  requirements — on  East  Seventy-sixth 
Street,  a  short  block  and  a  quarter  from  Fifth  Avenue 
and  the  Park.  Miss  Galveston  had  an  uncle  who  pro 
vided  for  her  generously,  but,  being  an  unmarried  man 
himself,  and  a  lover  of  the  comfort  and  seclusion  of  his 
club,  he  found  that  the  problem  of  his  niece  was  greatly 
simplified  by  the  capable  and  reliable  Miss  Jenks,  who 
assumed  the  care,  the  upbringing,  and  even  the  education 
of  his  sister's  child  for  the  modest  sum  of  two  hundred 
dollars  a  month. 

Various  reasons  had  led  Miss  Galveston's  uncle  to 
make  her  a  Christmas  present  of  a  trip  to  Italy,  a  pros 
pect  that  threw  both  Miss  Jenks  and  her  charge  into  a 
fever  of  excitement.  So  much  must  be  done,  so  much 
provided  for,  so  much  arranged!  There  was  the  little 
apartment,  so  tiny  and  cozy,  filled  with  Miss  Jenks'  in 
laid,  precious  furniture  and  treasured  souvenirs  of  for 
mer,  happily-remembered  travels.  It  would  not  do  to 
leave  these  in  an  empty  apartment  to  mildew  or  be  stolen, 
while  storage  was  such  a  bother  and  so  expensive.  If 
some  one,  a  careful  bachelor,  or  a  widow  and  her  daugh 
ter,  or,  better  still,  two  maiden  ladies,  sisters  perhaps, 
could  be  found  who  would  rent  the  little  apartment  just 
as  it  was,  for  the  time  they  were  to  be  gone,  Miss  Jenks 


THE  AMATEUR  359 


declared  she'd  let  it  go  for  no  more  than  the  rent  she  paid 
herself,  and  ask  not  one  penny  for  the  use  of  all  her 
pretty  furniture. 

"Would  a  married  couple  do?"  Miss  Galveston  sug 
gested. 

"Children?"  Miss  Jenks  had  popped  out  the  question 
as  she  might  have  pulled  a  cork  from  a  bottle. 

"Oh,  my,  no !  They're  only  just — they  aren't  married 
yet!  I  was  thinking  of  Jane  Boardman.  She  was  say 
ing  the  other  day  that,  when  she  was  married,  she  wanted 
to  go  to  keeping  house  right  away,  only  there  wasn't  any 
furniture." 

Miss  Jenks  considered  the  matter  thoughtfully,  as  she 
ripped  basting  threads  out  of  the  travelling  skirt,  the  hem 
of  which  she  had  just  finished  stitching  on  the  machine. 

"I  should  have  to  see  the  man  first."  She  delivered 
this  decision  in  spite  of  the  row  of  pins  she  held  between 
her  lips. 

So  it  was  that  Jane  had  brought  Carey  out  the  follow 
ing  Sunday  afternoon,  and  he  was  introduced  to  Miss 
Jenks  for  inspection.  There  was  something  attractive 
about  the  house  in  which  Miss  Galveston  and  her  chap 
eron  lived.  It  was  white,  prim,  narrow,  and  rather  re 
tiring  beside  the  towering  apartment  buildings  on  either 
side.  There  was  a  modest  tailor  shop  on  the  ground  floor 
— an  insult  to  the  neighbourhood,  Miss  Jenks  assured 
Carey,  that  the  landlord  had  promised  to  rectify  as  soon 
as  the  lease  was  up.  Tucked  away,  as  if  it  were  ashamed 
of  itself,  a  small  doorway  cuddled  down  beside  the  shop, 
which  gave  access  to  the  apartments  above.  There  were 
four  of  these  apartments,  all  alike,  except  the  top  one, 
which  had  the  distinction  of  possessing  a  real  kitchen. 
The  others  consisted  of  two  fair-sized,  narrow  rooms  con 
nected  by  a  long  neck  of  hall  which,  cut  into  sections  by 


360  THE  AMATEUR 


real  doors  or  suggested  divisions,  furnished  a  kitchenette, 
a  bath,  a  wash-stand  and  china  closet.  The  one  occupied 
by  Miss  Jenks  and  her  charge  was  on  the  third  floor  and 
was  exceptionally  bright  and  sunny,  and  the  rent  of 
thirty  dollars  a  month  seemed  moderate  to  Carey  at  the 
time.  It  was  completely  furnished,  and  Miss  Jenks  as 
sured  them  that  all  they  would  have  to  do  would  be  to 
move  right  in.  This  was  the  argument  that  had  the 
most  weight  with  them.  They  were  eager  to  be  married, 
and  their  wedding  would  have  to  be  postponed  many 
months  if  they  had  to  wait  to  save  the  money  to  furnish 
a  house  properly. 

Carey  had  been  obliged  to  dispose  of  his  tapestries,  his 
tall  candlesticks,  and  the  big  oriental  rug  that  had  cov 
ered  the  floor  of  the  Fifty-ninth  Street  studio.  They 
had  brought  less  than  a  quarter  of  the  sum  he  had  orig 
inally  paid,  but  he  had  parted  with  them  with  hardly  a 
regret.  They  reminded  him  of  a  period  of  his  life  that 
would  always  be  a  humiliation.  Besides  this  considera 
tion,  he  was  desperately  in  need  of  funds.  The  excur 
sions  with  Jane,  the  intimate  luncheons,  the  dinners  and 
theatres  they  enjoyed  together,  while  never  extravagant, 
required  money,  and,  in  addition,  there  were  his  living 
expenses,  his  model  hire,  his  artist's  materials,  which,  in 
his  last  effort  to  make  something  of  his  art,  he  would 
not  permit  himself  to  sacrifice. 

It  was  after  they  had  viewed  Miss  Jenks'  tiny  quarters 
and  he  had  seen  the  shining  light  of  happiness  in  Jane's 
eyes  as  she  beheld  in  anticipation  the  vision  of  beginning 
life  in  such  bright  and  charming  quarters,  that  Carey 
took  a  final,  decisive  step.  Deliberately  he  resigned  the 
hope  of  ever  attaining  again  that  pinnacle  of  popularity 
in  his  profession  which  he  had  known  for  so  short  a  time. 

He  gave  up  his  Art.     It  was  the  greatest  sacrifice  he 


THE  AMATEUR  361 


had  ever  made.  Not  even  Jane  understood,  and  he  took 
pains  to  see  that  she  did  not.  He  knew  too  well  the 
heroic  stand  she  would  have  taken,  and  her  happiness 
meant  more  to  him  now  than  anything  else. 

Mark  Harrison  had  once  been  a  retoucher  in  a  pho 
to-engraving  establishment.  He  had  often  regaled 
Springer  and  Carey  with  amusing  stories  of  his  early 
experiences  before  he  had  launched  out  as  a  cartoonist. 
He  had  told  of  the  drudgery  of  the  work,  the  unending 
succession  of  photographs  whose  backgrounds  must  be 
airbrushed,  or  obliterated  with  opaque  red;  of  portraits 
whose  features  must  be  strengthened,  eyes  put  in,  noses 
outlined,  mouths  and  chins  more  sharply  indicated;  of 
legs  and  arms  that  must  be  added;  of  summer  scenes  that 
must  be  changed  to  winter;  of  crookedly  photographed 
landscapes  that  must  be  straightened ;  of  the  hundred  and 
one  calls  made  upon  him  and  the  other  men  in  that  de 
partment.  Day  in  and  day  out,  it  had  been  rush,  rush, 
rush;  there  was  never  any  praise  for  work  done  well  or 
finished  on  time,  but  always  blame  or  criticism  when  the 
time  allotted  to  finish  a  certain  piece  of  work  proved  in 
sufficient  to  complete  it  satisfactorily  and  there  had  been 
a  few  minutes'  delay.  No  wonder  there  was  always  a 
demand  for  retouchers  when  a  good  one  could  always  get 
a  better  job  at  easier  work;  a  satisfactory  retoucher  was 
capable  of  work  of  a  higher  grade. 

But  was  he  ?  That  was  the  question  Carey  asked  him 
self  as  he  considered  the  matter.  He  knew  he  was  clever 
at  retouching  photographs,  for  much  of  the  work  the 
railroad  at  home  had  given  him  had  been  of  this  nature, 
during  the  years  he  had  attended  to  its  art  matters.  He 
had  achieved  some  difficult  transformations  with  certain 
photographs.  Joe  had  taught  him  the  use  of  the  air 
brush. 


362  THE  AMATEUR 


But,  if  he  understood  retouching  and  did  it  unusually 
well,  did  that  prove  he  was  worthy  of  more  exacting 
work?  He  did  not  debate  the  matter  with  himself  very 
long.  The  shining  look  in  Jane's  eyes,  as  she  gazed  about 
Miss  Jenks'  complete,  diminutive  quarters,  decided  him. 

He  obtained  a  job  in  the  first  engraving  house  to  which 
he  applied.  The  Pillsbury  Engraving  Company  was  lo 
cated  on  lower  Fifth  Avenue.  It  occupied  two  upper 
floors  of  a  corner  loft  building,  and  had  done  business  in 
the  same  spot  for  twenty  years. 

As  Carey  stepped  out  of  the  elevator  and  stood  hesitat 
ingly  before  the  counter,  a  pimply-faced  youth,  in  a 
striped  canvas  apron,  paused  a  moment  in  his  hurried 
assortment  of  a  pile  of  proofs  to  gaze  curiously  at  him 
as  he  inquired  if  there  was  a  retoucher's  job  vacant.  He 
ran  his  eye  over  Carey  appraisingly,  and,  without  turn 
ing  his  head,  bawled  at  the  top  of  his  voice  the  single 
imperative  syllable: 

"Dick!" 

A  small,  freckled,  snub-nosed  boy  stuck  his  head 
through  an  open  doorway  with  a  petulant : 

"What  d'yer  want?" 

"Take  this  man  up  to  Mr.  Clements." 

Through  a  confusion  of  workmen  and  the  parapherna 
lia  of  an  engraving  plant,  Carey  followed  his  young 
guide.  The  atmosphere  was  vibrant  with  a  bedlam  of 
small  noises:  the  persistent  droning  of  machinery,  the 
quick  raps  of  hammers  affixing  plates  to  wooden  blocks, 
the  whir  of  a  steel  saw,  the  sharp  bite  of  a  routing  ma 
chine.  Over  all  there  prevailed  the  penetrating  odour  of 
powerful  acids.  Up  back  stairs,  through  a  gallery  where 
the  cameras  were  located,  and  which  the  developing 
rooms  adjoined,  Carey  made  his  way.  Beyond,  in  a 
small,  bare  room,  under  a  brilliant  skylight,  sat  three 


THE  AMATEUR  363 


young  men  silently  bending  over  their  respective  drawing 
boards.  The  fourth,  a  wizened  little  man  with  glasses 
and  a  stiff  red  beard,  sat  on  a  slightly  raised  platform, 
brush  in  hand,  intent  upon  his  work. 

"Mr.  Clements,  this  man  wants  a  job!"  The  snub- 
nosed  boy  delivered  his  message  and  vanished.  The  four 
occupants  of  the  room  turned  round  to  examine  the  ap 
plicant.  Carey  was  conscious  of  his  good  clothes  and  the 
difference  in  his  face  and  bearing  from  the  men  who 
stared  at  him. 

The  anarchistic-looking  foreman  asked  Carey  the  nec 
essary  questions  regarding  his  previous  experience,  di 
rected  him  to  a  vacant  drawing  table,  and  then  placed 
some  photographs  before  him  that  were  waiting  to  be  re 
touched.  When  they  were  finished,  Clements  examined 
them  critically.  Curtly  he  told  Carey  to  report  at 
eight  o'clock  the  following  Monday  morning;  he  would 
receive  twenty-five  dollars  a  week. 

That  evening  Carey  asked  Jane  if  she  thought  a  steady 
income  of  a  hundred  dollars  a  month  would  be  sufficient 
for  their  needs.  With  pencil  and  paper  they  figured  out 
their  expenses.  Thirty  dollars  for  rent,  ten  dollars  a  week 
for  the  table  and  laundry,  ten  dollars  a  month  for  gas 
and  electricity.  It  left  a  magnificent  balance  of  twenty 
dollars,  half  of  which  they  certainly  should  be  able  to  save 
against  a  rainy  day.  Neither  of  them  would  need  clothes 
for  a  long  time,  as  Carey's  wardrobe  was  still  well 
stocked  with  the  tailored  creations  of  his  days  of  plenty, 
and  Jane's  savings  were  all  to  go  into  a  very  complete 
trousseau.  There  was  also  a  nest-egg  of  two  hundred 
dollars  in  the  bank  remaining  from  the  sale  of  the  tapes 
tries  and  rug. 

"There  will  be  an  extra  twenty-five  dollars  whenever 


364  THE  AMATEUR 


there's  a  fifth  Saturday  in  the  month,"  Carey  said  hap 
pily. 

"An  extra  twenty-five  dollars?"  Jane  asked,  puzzled 
and  surprised. 

Then  he  told  her  of  what  he  had  done ;  but  his  careless 
air  did  not  deceive  the  girl.  She  looked  at  him  silently 
for  some  minutes,  and  Carey  saw  stormy  opposition  gath 
ering  in  her  eyes. 

"Listen,  my  dearest  girl   .    .    ." 

He  stopped  her  before  she  had  time  to  begin.  She  was 
not  hard  to  convince  as  he  drew  before  her  eyes  the  pic 
ture  of  the  happiness  that  would  be  theirs  if  she  let  him 
make  a  sacrifice  which,  after  all,  he  assured  her,  meant 
so  little  to  him,  merely  relieving  him  from  the  constant 
work  and  uncertainty  of  an  unprofitable  profession. 
There  was  Miss  Jenks'  apartment  ready  for  them,  and 
Miss  Jenks  herself  waiting  for  their  final  word.  They 
could  be  married  right  away;  at  any  rate,  early  in  Feb 
ruary. 

It  was  a  sufficient  reward  for  what  his  decision  had 
cost  him  just  to  see  her  face  begin  to  glow  and  to  watch 
the  shining,  happy  light  come  back  into  her  eyes. 

"Carey !"  she  exclaimed,  as  a  brilliant  thought  occurred 
to  her,  "wouldn't  it  be  a  splendid  idea  to  be  married  on 
Valentine's  Day?" 

Carey's  answer  was  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  turn  her 
face  up  to  his  own  and  press  his  lips  to  hers.  There  was 
nothing  in  the  world  that  was  not  worth  sacrificing  for 
this  wonderful  girl.  At  such  moments,  Carey's  love  was 
almost  an  anguish.  He  found  it  impossible  to  express 
it,  and  yet  he  was  forever  trying.  It  was  a  constant  sur 
prise  to  him  that  she  should  possibly  conceive  for  him 
a  similar  passion.  Other  lovers,  he  was  convinced, 
cared  not  as  they  did.  Great  love  was  permitted  to  only 


THE  AMATEUR  365 


a  few;  how  it  was,  by  what  act  of  Heaven  he  had  been 
selected  to  experience  it,  he  did  not  know.  Springer,  un 
questionably,  loved  Cecilia;  but  it  was  ridiculous  to  sup 
pose  that  he  bore  her  any  such  blind,  fierce  love  as  Carey 
knew.  Springer  had  just  happened  to  meet  Cecilia  at  the 
moment  when  he  was  ready  to  fall  in  love !  He  did  not 
know  Jane.  That  was  the  difference.  By  some  whirl 
of  fortune,  by  some  unaccountable  direction  of  Fate, 
some  manifestation  of  divine  will,  Carey  had  met  the 
right  girl  and  had  had  the  brains  to  see  in  her  his  true 
mate,  the  wife  that  was  made  for  his  particular  needs, 
the  woman  who  could  awake  in  him  the  great  passion 
that  shook  and  thrilled  him. 

Carey  and  Jane  had  no  honeymoon.  The  day  follow 
ing  their  marriage,  a  Sunday,  they  spent  alone  in  the 
first  intoxication  of  their  wedded  happiness.  Monday 
morning  at  eight  o'clock,  Carey  must  punch  his  time  card 
in  the  office  of  the  Pillsbury  Engraving  Company  and 
listen  for  the  rest  of  the  day  to  the  guttural  directions 
and  comments  of  Mr.  Clements.  The  parting  from  Jane 
on  that  first  morning  was  a  hard  wrench;  it  seemed  an 
inhuman  thing  to  leave  her  alone  all  day  in  that  apart 
ment.  Firmly  he  told  himself  that  he  must  go  to  his 
work  and  face  the  prospect  of  not  seeing  her  for  eleven 
hours.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  no  different 
from  millions  of  bridegrooms  who  had  preceded  him, 
or  from  millions  who  would  follow.  For  many  years, 
the  comic  weeklies  had  made  sport  of  this  moment  of 
separation  between  people  just  married;  but  Carey  did 
not  recognise  his  own  case  as  being  in  any  way  similar. 
Springer  and  Cecilia  had  once  irritated  him  by  their  trite 
and  conventional  manner  of  living,  their  view-point, 
speech  and  code.  He  failed  to  see  that  he  and  Jane  were 


366  THE  AMATEUR 


guilty  of  exactly  what  he  had  found  fault  with  in  them. 
They  were  true  to  their  type. 

Somehow,  the  first  day  and  those  that  succeeded  were 
lived  through  and,  when  the  afternoons  began  to  wane,  it 
was  a  glorious  anticipation  to  think  of  going  home  to  her. 
Carey  walked  to  and  from  the  office,  saving  car-fare 
and  getting  exercise.  It  took  him  forty-five  minutes  to 
reach  his  home.  Jane,  too,  counted  the  hours  as  well 
as  he,  and  always,  after  he  had  turned  the  corner  where 
the  big  synagogue  stood  facing  the  Park  and  had  passed 
a  certain  flight  of  steps  half  way  down  the  block,  he  got 
his  first  glimpse  of  the  house,  and  never  failed  to  see  her 
figure  at  the  window  watching  for  him.  She  would  leave 
her  post  when  he  reached  the  corner  of  Madison  Ave 
nue,  and  meet  him  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  in  the  dark 
little  hall  into  which  opened  the  retiring  entrance  that 
cuddled  beside  the  tailor  shop.  That  meeting  was  always 
the  supreme  moment  of  the  day. 

Dinner  would  be  ready,  a  delicious  meal  of  usually 
three  and  often  four  courses.  Carey  never  ceased  to 
marvel  at  his  wife's  cooking,  her  cleverness  and  ingenu 
ity.  Never  was  an  uneaten  morsel  of  food  wasted;  in 
some  appetizing  manner  it  appeared  upon  the  table  at 
another  meal.  Jane  claimed  that  she  had  her  mother 
to  thank  for  this  secret  of  domestic  economy.  Certain 
it  was  she  ran  the  house  on  an  astonishingly  small  in 
come.  She  allowed  herself  a  dollar  a  day  for  their  food ; 
but  often  had  to  do  with  less.  There  was  continually 
some  small,  unforeseen  expense,  which  had  to  be  paid  in 
part  out  of  the  appropriation  for  their  modest  table.  The 
only  bills  Carey  and  Jane  were  obliged  to  run  were  for 
gas  and  electricity.  They  paid  cash  for  everything  else, 
even  the  newspaper  that  Carey  bought  in  the  morning  on 
his  way  down  town,  and  the  milk  that  Jane  carried  home 


THE  AMATEUR  367 


from  the  dairy  when  she  needed  it.  It  was  she  who  bore 
the  brunt  of  their  financial  problem,  but  Carey  did  his 
share  to  the  extent  of  giving  up  lunches  and  learning 
how  to  roll  his  cigarettes  in  order  to  use  a  cheaper  grade 
of  tobacco.  In  place  of  food  at  noon  time,  he  patro 
nised  the  soda-water  counter  beneath  the  rotunda  in 
Siegel-Coopers  mammoth  department  store,  where  he 
could  get  a  cup  of  coffee  and  two  saltine  crackers  for  five 
cents.  The  coffee  was  served  to  him  in  a  long  china  cup 
set  in  a  metal  holder,  and  in  this  form  it  did  not  make 
him  conspicuous  to  be  seen  drinking  it.  Certainly  he  felt 
much  less  self-conscious  standing  among  the  crowd  that 
always  thronged  this  soda  counter  than  he  would  have 
done  making  a  five-cent  purchase  at  either  Childs  or  one 
of  the  new  "wait-on-yourself"  restaurants. 

But  there  were  no  real  hardships  for  either  of  them. 
It  was  all  fun;  they  were  like  children  together,  and 
Carey  regarded  his  self-denial  as  an  offering  to  her  who 
stood  for  all  that  was  worth  loving  and  worth  having  in 
life. 

Spring  overtook  them  unexpectedly.  Every  one  else  in 
the  thronging  city  who  had  endured  the  cold  and  the  rig 
ours  of  the  hard  winter,  was  waiting  eagerly  for  the 
mellow  spring;  but  Carey  and  Jane  had  been  too  happy 
to  notice  that  snow  had  fallen  and  been  cleared  away,  had 
fallen  again,  and  once  more  been  cleared  away,  only  to 
cover  the  streets  again  as  soon  as  the  army  of  men  and 
the  long  string  of  dump  carts  had  made  the  streets  pass 
able  once  more.  Spring  came  to  them  as  an  added  bless 
ing;  it  was  as  if  Nature  found  their  union  good  and 
smiled  upon  them. 

Walking  down  through  the  Park  every  morning,  Carey 
watched  the  buds  on  the  trees  slowly  swell  and  fatten, 
until,  urged  by  a  warm,  persistent  sun,  simultaneously 


368  THE  AMATEUR 


they  burst  their  casings,  pushing  their  wrinkled  green 
noses  out  of  their  shells,  like  rabbits  cautiously  emerging 
from  their  burrows.  The  grass  that  stretched  away  on 
either  side  of  his  path  took  on  a  lovelier  verdant  color. 
Birds  shrilled  joyously  in  the  trees  and  hopped  energet 
ically  among  the  bushes.  Squirrels  frisked  in  and  out, 
and  up  and  down ;  even  the  poor  beasts  in  the  Zoo  seemed 
aware  the  Spring  had  come,  and  lolled  luxuriously  on 
their  sides  enjoying  the  temperate  air. 

As  the  weather  grew  warmer  and  June  brought  more 
rich  golden  days,  Jane  formed  the  habit  of  walking  down 
to  the  end  of  the  Park  to  sit  somewhere  near  the  tri 
umphant  Sherman  statue  and  wait  for  Carey  as  he  came 
striding  eagerly  up  the  Avenue  after  the  day's  work  was 
over.  He  could  always  distinguish  her  white  linen  dress 
and  her  blue  parasol  on  the  crowded  benches.  He  knew 
the  instant  that  she,  on  her  part,  recognised  his  figure 
as  he  crossed  the  square.  They  were  always  conscious 
of  others'  stares  when  they  met.  No  matter  how  re 
served  they  were,  how  restrained  in  manner,  how  con 
ventional  their  deportment,  they  knew  that  all  about 
could  see  the  love  that  shone  out  of  their  eyes  and  un 
derstand  the  happy  smile  that  illumined  their  faces.  But 
it  was  nothing  of  which  to  be  ashamed,  they  told  each 
other.  If  the  curious  idlers  on  the  benches  witnessed 
their  happiness,  let  it  do  them  what  good  it  might. 

Those  were  never-to-be-forgotten  walks  home  through 
the  lengthening  shadows  and  the  brilliant  shafts  of  sun 
light  that  crossed  their  path.  The  Park  was  practically 
deserted  at  this  hour;  the  ubiquitous  nurse-maids  had 
wheeled  their  charges  home.  A  belated  group  of  chil 
dren  still  frolicked,  perhaps,  somewhere  under  the  trees. 
Their  shrill  cries  and  laughter  sounded  pleasantly  on  the 
soft  evening  air.  An  occasional  hum  of  a  motor  marked 


THE  AMATEUR  369 


the  swift  passage  of  some  delayed  man  of  affairs,  or 
some  late  tea-drinkers  going  home  to  dinner.  Unex 
pectedly,  by  an  abrupt  turn  of  the  path,  the  romping 
children  would  be  discovered,  the  placid,  Italian  mother 
waiting  patiently  for  them  to  grow  weary  of  their  play. 
They  were  curly-headed,  swarthy  children,  with  large, 
sparkling  black  eyes,  shouting  strange,  unchildlike  jar 
gon  at  each  other.  Slowly  Carey  and  Jane  sauntered 
homeward,  speaking  little,  arm  in  arm,  conscious  of  the 
bond  of  absolute  sympathy  that  knitted  their  souls  to 
gether  in  perfect  happiness. 

If,  out  of  the  darkness  of  a  wakeful  moment  during 
the  night,  or  brought  up  suddenly  before  him  by  a  chance 
word,  a  familiar  spot,  a  meaningless  allusion,  a  glance,  a 
sigh,  there  rose  before  Carey's  eyes  the  spectre  of  himself 
in  another  role,  in  other  surroundings,  he  fiercely  shut 
his  eyes  and  bowed  his  head  in  bitter  self-reproach.  It 
was  all  so  unfair  to  Jane !  He  must  keep  his  regrets  and 
his  remorse  to  himself.  It  would  be  unfairer  still  to  her 
to  mar  the  peace  and  serenity  of  her  heart  by  revelations 
that  she  had  begged  him  not  to  make.  She  was  content 
to  remain  in  ignorance  of  that  dark  chapter  in  his  life. 
But  he  longed  to  throw  himself  on  his  knees  and,  burying 
his  face  in  her  lap,  pour  out  to  her  his  confession  of  sin 
and  weakness.  He  wanted,  with  all  the  strength  that 
was  in  him,  to  somehow  make  reparation.  He  had  reas 
sured  an  uneasy  conscience,  in  the  days  of  his  wanton 
ness,  that  he  was  harming  no  one  by  his  folly.  If  only 
he  had  known  that  the  injury  and  the  wrong  were  ac 
cumulating  and  being  saved  for  little  Jane! 

Carey  bitterly  paid  for  those  days  of  recklessness.  His 
repentance  brought  him  no  comfort,  did  him  no  good. 
Constantly  he  felt  he  had  no  right  to  his  great  happiness, 


THE  AMATEUR 


and  that  a  punishment  was  awaiting  him  which  he  was 
only  too  ready  to  admit  he  deserved.  She  might  be  taken 
from  him !  That  was  the  fear  continually  lurking  in  the 
shadows  behind  his  back,  in  the  dark  corners,  that  he 
could  never  move  his  eyes  quick  enough  to  see. 

Once  he  saw  Gerald  Crofts  and  Myra  in  a  box  at  the 
theatre.  He  and  Jane  were  hanging  over  the  brass  rail 
ing  of  the  family  circle,  so  there  was  no  possibility  of 
Myra's  recognising  him.  Carey  felt  like  a  snail  encoun 
tering  its  own  slimy  track.  It  was  intolerable  to  him  that 
Jane  should  even  breathe  the  same  air  with  Myra.  He 
controlled  himself  until  the  end  of  the  act,  and  then  com 
plained  that  he  felt  giddy  and  that  he  was  afraid  he  was 
going  to  faint.  They  hurried  out  of  the  theatre;  but 
Jane's  solicitude  supplied  additional  fuel  for  the  flames 
of  his  remorse. 

He  derived  a  certain  satisfaction  from  such  moments 
of  acute  anguish.  It  was  the  only  way  in  which  he  could 
be  punished.  It  was  bitter  to  remember,  in  the  midst  of 
such  perfect  happiness,  how  utterly  undeserving  he  was. 
Only  years  of  tender  consideration,  of  thoughtful  minis 
tration,  of  loving  solicitude  and  care  for  the  woman  he 
had  wronged  and  married  would  wipe  out  the  black  stain 
upon  his  soul.  Perhaps  it  was  this  passionate  desire  to 
make  reparation  which  urged  him  so  constantly  to  new 
endeavours  to  please  her,  to  plan  for  her  ease  and  com 
fort,  to  think  ahead  for  her,  that  convinced  Jane  that  hers 
was  the  most  gentle,  unselfish,  devoted  husband  that  ever 
woman  had. 


CHAPTER    IV 


IT  was  a  late  afternoon  during  the  following  summer, 
and  Carey  was  clearing  the  weeds  from  the  tomato 
beds  in  the  tiny  truck  garden  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
Little  Toby  Springer  was  regarding  him  through  a  crack 
in  the  fence,  making  curious  noises  through  his  nose  to 
attract  his  attention.  Carey  straightened  himself  pain 
fully.  He  enjoyed  the  work  of  puttering  about  his  gar 
den  but  he  was  unaccustomed  to  it,  and  bending  over  for 
so  long  made  his  back  ache.  He  regarded  Toby  re 
flectively,  speculating  upon  what  Carey  Junior  would  be 
like  in  another  year  when  he  would  be  Toby's  age.  Toby 
was  an  unusually  beautiful  child,  with  the  regular  fea 
tures  of  his  father  and  the  dull  glory  of  his  mother's  hair. 
People  raved  about  him  a  great  deal;  but  Carey  shared 
Jane's  belief  that,  while  Toby  was  handsome  and  well 
behaved,  he  was  too  placid  and  stolid  and  did  not  have 
half  as  much  natural  intelligence  as  Carey  Junior  showed 
at  six  months.  Carey  Junior — or  "Carey-Ju,"  as  they 
called  him — made  his  own  particular  bid  for  beauty.  He 
had  his  father's  yellow  hair  and  high  colour;  but  it  was 
the  expression  of  intelligent  interest  and  happy  alert 
ness  in  so  young  a  baby  that  made  him  especially  attrac 
tive. 

As  Carey  returned  Toby's  stare,  following  his  own 
thought,  it  seemed  to  him  that  Carey  Junior  was  a  thor 
oughly  satisfactory  son.  Jane  had  just  put  him  into  short 


372  THE  AMATEUR 


dresses,  and,  as  he  sat  lolling,  rather  spinelessly,  in  his 
new  high  chair,  his  pink  toes  waving  beyond  the  edge  of 
the  tiny  dress,  Carey,  as  he  recalled  the  picture  to  mind, 
felt  a  thrill  of  pride  and  love. 

The  screen  door  from  the  kitchen  of  the  house  that 
abutted  on  to  the  rear  of  the  one  Carey  and  Jane  occupied 
was  suddenly  swung  open,  closing  again  with  a  smart 
clap,  as  Springer  came  out  on  the  landing  at  the  head 
of  the  back  stairs. 

"Hello,  Carey,"  he  called.  "How's  your  strawberries?" 

Carey  frowned  and  shook  his  head  discouragedly. 

"Archibald's  dog  scratched  the  beds  to  pieces.  I'll 
have  to  get  some  more  plants.  Fisher's  quite  decent 
about  letting  me  have  'em." 

Springer  came  down  into  his  own  yard  and,  avoiding 
the  array  of  diapers  that  were  floating  from  the  criss 
crossed  clothesline,  swung  Toby  to  his  shoulder  and 
leaned  over  the  low  fence  to  inspect  Carey's  work. 

"I  wish  my  lettuce  would  head-in  that  way,"  he  said, 
gazing  enviously  at  the  short  double  row  of  firm  speci 
mens. 

"I  wish  I  had  the  time  you  have  to  put  in  on  my  gar 
den,"  Carey  rejoined. 

"I  don't  see  what  you've  got  to  kick  about.  You've 
a  much  better-looking  garden  than  I  have !" 

"Well,  you  don't  like  gardening  as  much  as  I  do.  If 
you  did,  you'd  spend  a  great  deal  more  time  on  it.  If 
I  get  up  early  enough,  I  can  put  in  an  hour  or  half-an- 
hour  before  train  time,  and  you  know  I  don't  get  home 
until  six-fifteen !  There's  just  that  and  Sundays." 

Springer  nodded  his  head,  admitting  the  point. 

"Don't  do  that,  Toby !"  he  exclaimed  to  the  child,  who 
was  plucking  at  the  hairs  in  his  eyebrows,  "you  hurt 
Dad!" 


THE  AMATEUR  373 


"I'll  have  less  time  than  ever,  now,"  he  continued; 
"I've  just  got  two  boys'  books  from  The  Occident 
to  illustrate,  and  there  are  six  more  instalments  of 
the  East  and  West  serial  for  which  I  have  to  make  those 
thumb-nail  pen-and-inks.  I've  got  to  get  in  and  hustle. 
The  Occident  wants  the  illustrations  by  August  first! 
The  books  are  fall  publications." 

Carey  did  not  answer.  It  always  hurt  him  when  he 
learned  of  others'  progress  in  the  profession  he  had  aban 
doned.  He  wished  Springer  every  success.  Or,  putting 
it  more  honestly  to  himself,  success  in  other  work.  It 
had  not  been  so  bad  while  they  were  living  in  New  York 
City ;  but,  since  he  and  Jane  had  come  over  to  Leonia,  an 
artists'  colony,  he  had  found  his  failure  to  make  a  living 
by  his  Art  a  constant  rankling  pain.  It  was  not  as  if  he 
doubted  his  ability  to  do  better  work  than  his  neighbours. 
That  was  the  point  of  the  whole  matter.  He  knew  that 
he  was  a  better  workman,  a  better  artist,  than  any  of  the 
men  who  lived  about  him.  Often  he  asked  himself,  if  he 
had  persisted  a  little  longer,  if  he  had  postponed  his  mar 
riage  another  six  months  or  a  year,  would  his  chance  of 
success  through  legitimate  work  have  come?  The  fact 
that  he  had  known  what  popularity  and  preference  meant, 
made  it  seem  all  the  harder.  These  had  once  been  his! 
But,  when  he  thought  of  Jane  and  Carey- Ju,  there  re 
mained  no  doubt  in  his  mind  that  the  sacrifice  had  been 
worth  while.  But  he  wondered  about  the  future.  Was 
he  always  to  be  a  retoucher?  Nothing  more?  Was 
Carey- Ju  to  grow  up  to  refer  to  him  casually,  negligibly, 
as  "My  father, — he  works,  you  know ;  he's  a  retoucher  in 
an  Engraving  Company;  been  there  for  twenty-odd 
years"?  Or,  was  his  end  to  be  among  those  who  came 
early  every  morning  to  the  Metropolitan  Museum  to  get 
a  place  among  the  group  of  old  men  and  women  who 


374  THE  AMATEUR 


made  hurried  copies  of  the  painting  popularly  known  as 
Paul  and  Virginia  to  sell  for  what  they  could  get, — two 
dollars,  perhaps? 

These  were  bitter  reflections,  and  Carey  could  not 
strive  against  them.  Persistently  they  came.  His  wife 
knew  what  distressed  him,  and  often,  when  he  was  a 
prey  to  these  unprofitable  and  gloomy  thoughts,  she 
would  come  softly  up  behind  him,  lay  one  cool  forearm 
about  his  neck  and  touch  his  yellow  hair  gently  with  her 
lips.  He  knew  she  understood,  and  it  was  her  rare  and 
perfect  sympathy  that  always  furnished  him  with  fresh 
courage.  He  had  become  an  expert  workman;  to  him 
was  given  always  the  most  difficult  photographs  to  be 
redeemed  or  altered;  and  his  salary  had  been  raised  to 
forty  dollars  a  week.  But  it  was  an  ignominious  success 
at  best,  a  cheap  achievement,  one  that  he  held  in  con 
tempt  and  despised  in  his  heart. 

A  week,  ten  days  ago, — whenever  it  was — that  Jane 
had  put  Carey- Ju  in  short  dresses  for  the  first  time  and 
sat  him,  fat  and  laughing,  in  the  new  high  chair,  Carey 
had  been  carried  out  of  himself  by  the  picture  his  son 
had  made  with  his  golden,  ethereal  hair,  that  curled  in 
tangled  wisps  about  his  head,  and  the  five  little,  round, 
pink-putty  marbles  that  stuck  out  from  either  side  under 
the  hem  of  his  dress  and  represented  his  toes!  When 
Carey  had  laid  his  artist's  materials  away,  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  that  he  would  never  put  his  hand  to  them 
again.  For  him,  at  that  moment,  his  art  was  over.  But 
the  charm  of  the  baby  and  the  wish,  somehow,  to  catch 
and  preserve  it  led  him  to  root  out  from  among  the 
trunks  and  packing  cases  in  the  attic  the  old  box  of  paints 
and  drawing  materials,  and  the  dusty  drawing  table  that 
had  followed  him  about  for  so  many  years.  There  were 
some  pastel  crayons, — most  of  them  broken  and  scat- 


THE  AMATEUR  375 


tered — but  still  enough  for  his  immediate  purpose — and 
Carey  had  spent  a  happy  Sunday  afternoon  in  handling 
one  of  his  old  mediums  and  drawing  his  son's  portrait. 
And  the  result  was  not  bad.  He  knew  it  was  a  good  like 
ness,  and  it  had  something  of  Carey-Ju's  bright,  intelli 
gent  interest.  The  picture  suggested  that  the  baby  had 
suddenly  heard  a  funny  noise  and  had  cocked  his  head 
a  little  to  one  side,  expectant  and  curious,  ready  to  hear 
it  again. 

Jane  was  delighted,  and  her  praise  had  been  very  pleas 
ant  to  hear,  even  if  her  interest  was  a  mother's.  Carey 
had  been  tempted  to  show  it  to  Springer ;  but  he  knew  it 
would  have  put  his  friend  in  the  embarrassing  position  of 
having  to  say  it  was  good,  whether  he  liked  it  or  not. 
So  he  told  himself  that  he  had  been  all  through  the  game 
and  was  too  disillusioned  to  allow  himself  to  be  foolishly 
encouraged  by  a  happy  likeness  of  his  boy. 

The  screen  door  banged  again,  and  Carey  looked  up  to 
smile  and  waive  his  hand  to  Cecilia.  She  had  become 
more  lovely  in  motherhood  than  she  had  ever  been  before. 
She  was  much  heavier,  her  arms  and  neck  and  bosom  pos 
sessing  a  certain  voluptuous  ampleness  that  gave  her  a 
soft,  reposeful  serenity. 

Carey  compared  her  for  a  moment  to  his  own  wife. 
They  were  widely  different  types,  and,  to  Carey,  Jane 
was  the  more  charming,  the  more  perfectly  made,  the 
more  beautiful.  Cecilia's  bigness  appeared  almost  cum 
bersome  to  him  beside  the  finer,  more  subtle  and  delicate 
qualities  of  little  Jane,  who,  he  decided,  was  the  more 
feminine  of  the  two. 

"Bring  Toby  in,  Fleming,"  Cecilia  called  to  her  hus 
band,  shielding  her  eyes  from  the  sun's  last  shooting  rays ; 
"it's  time  for  his  bath,  and  Mary  has  the  water  run 
ning." 


376  THE  AMATEUR 


"Where's  Jane?"  she  asked,  addressing  Carey. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  my  dear,"  Carey  called  back. 
"I  came  over  from  town  a  little  earlier  this  afternoon  to 
dig  in  the  garden,  and  Minna  said  Jane  had  gone  over  to 
New  York  on  the  two-ten.  I  can't  imagine  why  she  isn't 
home  by  now.  What  time  is  it?" 

"It's  after  six, — I  don't  know  how  much,"  Cecilia  an 
swered. 

"Well,  she  ought  to  be  on  that  next  boat.  I  guess  I'll 
walk  down  to  the  trolley  and  wait  for  her." 

It  was  late  for  Jane,  especially  as  he  knew  of  nothing 
that  was  of  sufficient  importance  to  detain  her.  Usually 
she  rang  him  up  at  the  office  when  she  came  to  town  un 
expectedly,  and  arranged  what  boat  they  should  take  back 
together.  Besides,  she  was  nursing  Carey- Ju,  and  four 
hours  was  the  longest  she  had  ever  left  him.  She  had 
probably  given  Minna  a  bottle  of  modified  milk  to  ap 
pease  his  young  appetite  while  she  was  gone, — but  it  was 
more  than  four  hours  now ! 

The  old,  terrifying  fear  that  something  had  happened 
to  her  suddenly  leaped  upon  him.  He  had  not  been  so 
ridiculously  apprehensive  about  her  since  she  had  hero 
ically  come  through  the  agony  of  her  travail  and  brought 
Carey-Ju  into  the  world ;  but  he  always  felt  nervous  and 
frightened  when  he  was  uncertain  where  she  was  or 
if  she  failed  to  return  when  expected. 

As  he  was  walking  back  to  the  house,  to  slip  on  his 
coat  and  have  one  look  at  Carey-Ju  before  he  went  down 
to  the  car  line,  he  heard  her  whistle.  It  was  his  own 
call  to  her  when  he  came  home  in  the  evenings,  and  it 
always  brought  her,  sweet  and  fragrant,  to  the  door  to 
meet  him. 

Carey  hurried  around  the  house  and  saw  her  as  she 
was  fumbling  with  the  latch  of  the  gate.  She  had  been 


THE  AMATEUR  377 


running,  and  was  struggling  to  catch  her  breath,  her  face 
radiant  and  glowing. 

Her  husband  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  hugged  her 
to  him,  in  reaction  from  his  fear. 

"My  darling,"  he  said,  consolingly,  a  mild  reproach  in 
his  voice,  "you  shouldn't  run  that  way.  Come  into  the 
house  and  sit  down  while  you  catch  your  breath.  Now, 
just  wait  a  minute " 

"But,  Carey — 'but,  Carey — !"  she  gasped. 

Her  husband  became  suddenly  aware  that  she  was  un 
usually  agitated.  Behind  the  happy  smile  in  her  eyes  and 
upon  her  lips  there  was  a  hint  of  tears.  Apprehensively 
he  leaned  toward  her. 

"Dearest — what  has  happened  ?" 

She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  began  to  sob  in 
coherently. 

Carey  was  alarmed.  He  half-carried,  half -supported 
her  into  the  house.  A  feeling  of  approaching  calamity 
rilled  him. 

"Jane, — my  darling!"  he  said,  his  voice  betraying  his 
agitation.  "Tell  me,  what  is  it?" 

The  tone  had  its  effect. 

She  smiled  up  at  him  through  happy  tears. 

"No — no,  Carey.  It  isn't  bad  news,  dearest.  It's  good 
— it's  good  news!" 

She  flung  her  arms  again  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him 
passionately. 

"My — my  own, — my  darling, — my  husband,"  she 
whispered.  "I  know  what  you  have  suffered.  I've 
known  every  minute  what  you've  been  through!" 

Carey  gazed  at  her,  distressed,  uncomprehending. 

She  laughed  happily  again  at  his  puzzled  expression. 

"Dear,  I've  sold  it!  I've  sold  Carey-Ju's  picture — to 
Mr.  Sherman — and  he's  delighted  with  it ! — wants  it  for 


378  THE  AMATEUR 


the  cover  of  their  Christmas  issue.  Here's  the  cheque 
for  seventy-five  dollars!"  she  cried  triumphantly,  open 
ing  her  bag  and  waving  it  in  the  air. 

Dazedly,  Carey  took  the  cheque  from  her  and  gazed 
at  the  familiar  signature  at  the  bottom. 

"And,  what  is  more,  Carey  dear,"  his  wife  said,  kissing 
him  eagerly  again,  "he  gave  me  this,  and  said  it  was 
about  time  he  was  making  good  his  promises." 

She  pulled  something  else  from  her  bag,  and  into  Car 
ey's  hands  fluttered  the  long,  printed  sheets  he  knew  so 
well  and  had  coveted  so  long, — the  galley  proofs  of  a 
story. 

"He  wants  three  pictures,  and  agrees  to  pay  one  hun 
dred  and  fifty  dollars.  And  it  isn't  on  speculation;  ifs 
an  order!" 

She  stood  off  to  watch  the  effect  of  her  communica 
tion  ;  but  she  was  unprepared  for  Carey's  emotion. 

It  was  all  too  bewildering,  too  sudden,  too  tremendous. 
He  sank  into  a  chair  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
struggling  to  grasp  the  significance  of  it  all,  to  realise  that 
his  chance  had  come  again,  that  his  deliverance  from 
drudgery  was  at  hand.  Riding  over  and  above  these 
rushing  thoughts,  there  rose  an  overwhelming  love  for 
her  who,  sensing  his  distress,  had  quietly,  and  without 
word  to  him,  taken  the  simple  portrait  he  had  made  of 
their  son  to  her  old  employer  on  the  chance — or  the  con 
fident  belief,  rather — that  it  would  please  him.  Brave, 
faithful,  loyal,  trusting,  loving  little  Jane! 

He  held  out  his  arms  to  her,  the  tears  blinding  his 
eyes,  and  she  came  to  him,  meeting  his  hands,  his  lips,  his 
heart,  his  love,  with  hers. 

And  so  they  sat  together  for  a  long  time,  until  a  faint 
wail  from  upstairs  roused  the  conscience-stricken  mother. 


THE  AMATEUR  379 


She  sped  upstairs,  and  Carey  wandered  out  upon  the 
porch,  and  gazed  out  across  the  Jersey  landscape  and 
watched  the  brilliant  orange  in  the  western  sky  fade  to 
pink  and  graduate,  by  indistinguishable  degrees,  to  faint 
azure,  and  abruptly  change  to  the  ever-deepening  shades 
of  blue  as  the  canopy  of  heaven  stretched  eastward. 

Jane  presently  came  to  call  him  for  supper. 

"Has  it  meant  so  much  to  you,  my  dear,"  she  asked, 
slipping  her  arm  about  him  as  his  encircled  her,  "giving 
up  the  work  you  wanted  to  do, — giving  it  up  for  me?" 

"Dearest,  no  one  knows  better  than  you  do  whether  I 
considered  the  sacrifice  worth  making  for  what  I  got  in 
return.  But  I  was  thinking,"  he  continued,  "of  some 
thing  Gregory  Shilling  said  to  me  when  I  first  came  to 
New  York  and  went  to  him  for  advice.  I've  never  for 
gotten  it,  but  I  never  so  fully  recognised  the  truth  of  it 
as  now.  It  was  this :  That  no  man  can  interpret  life  un 
til  he  has  learned  something  of  what  life  is  and  has  be 
gun  to  understand  it.  It's  because  I  think  that  I  am  at 
last  beginning  to  understand  life  that  I  believe  so  firmly 
that  I  will  still  make  good  at  what  I  want  most  to  be." 

Jane  kissed  him,  and  they  turned  into  the  house. 

"You  know,"  Carey  said,  ruminating,  as  they  sat  down 
to  the  table,  "you  know,  I  think  old  Joe  Downer  would 
like  to  hear  about  this.  I  think  I'll  wire  him." 


THE   END 


• 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $I.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. ... 


OCT  26  193G 


SEP   16 


SENT  ON  IL' 


JUL   I? 


U.C.F 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


